‘Not with the cutter working, sir. Not likely.’

  ‘Well, perhaps he’d just climbed up, started the cutter and the ladder collapsed on him at that moment.’ Stock was studying the ground. ‘That’ll be it, sir.’

  There was a pause. ‘I expect.’ He looked up at Treasure.

  ‘With the ladder on top of him at the end, that’s what it’s got to be, really.’ Still he sounded doubtful.

  At five o’clock Treasure was striding briskly along the beach. He had started from outside the Beachcomber and was now nearing the pier.

  The incoming tide was still a good distance out. The big pebbles higher up the strand were barricaded off by a thick and pungent line of seaweed and jetsam. He was walking on smooth sand and enjoying the feel of it: he even liked the smell of decaying seawrack.

  The light was fading but the wind had dropped. More rain was threatened in the sky, but for the moment it was dry and surprisingly warm.

  He wished he still had the dog with him. It was part of the seaside fantasy to have a dog at your heels as you struck out over a deserted beach in winter — even a dog that was called Dung because it enjoyed rolling in cowpats. According to PC Stock, Dung belonged on the Fairfax farm, was a noted ratter, and scrounger from local outworkers. Probably Jacks had shared Saturday tea biscuits with him.

  He looked up at the braced ironwork on the underside of the pier, the pigeon-breasted latticework that guarded its promenade above, the wide roundel that bulged out half way along the pier’s length, the other even bigger one at the end. It was there the tiered pavilions stood, darkened now and lifeless, but home in summer for a surviving troupe of what John Betjeman called lesser Co-Optimists’. You could easily evoke the sound of the music: double-four tempo.

  Treasure turned about. He had come to the beach for exercise and to think — not to ruminate on childhood memories of Weston-super-Mare.

  One thing he was sure about: there was more than a coincidental link between those two deaths. Could he prove the link was more than circumstantial?

  Jacks had been into the cottage at five without smelling gas — a time when a reasonable authority considered it would have been nearly impossible to ignore the gas if it had been escaping since before eight.

  There had been at least three visitors to the cottage seen by Jacks, two identified as friends of Louella’s — people who could have let themselves in with the spare key. So either could have smelled the gas depending on the time of their visits.

  Treasure assumed the third caller had been Tony Quaint in a borrowed car — his wife’s? — or a fourth, who Jacks hadn’t seen. What if the unpredictable Quaint, obsessed with promoting the Sandy Lane scheme, whose wife had ‘told him all about Louella’, had come upon the key and let himself into the place — perhaps to write a note? What if Quaint had smelled gas and done nothing about it. Worse, what if Quaint …?

  The other two known callers might have had just as much at stake as Quaint. And who were they? Commander Mane was presumably one, though Treasure still needed to know what time he had been there. Pitty might be a non-starter. The only visit he admitted to could have been before Jacks arrived.

  If neither Mane nor Pitty had been the people spotted by Jacks, there were still numbers of Lady Brasset’s ‘friends’ involved as pending beneficiaries from Seawell who might have called. Which of them who, given the option and the notion, wouldn’t have switched off a gas tap? Which of them, in the same circumstances, would have switched one on?

  Any number of people could have come and gone by the other gate without Jacks knowing. But if such people heard later Jacks had been there and was naming names, would they assume they hadn’t been seen?

  The idea that Lady Brasset had met her death through someone else’s design had rooted in Treasure’s mind after he heard the postman’s statement. It had taken growth when he had come upon Jacks’s body, but it might still have withered except for the uncomfortable observation of Constable Stock.

  The explosion plan had been far from foolproof, but if it succeeded it had the merit of producing the perfect murder.

  Certainly a murderer would have had to go to the cottage to switch on the gas, but he could well have done so certain he wouldn’t be seen, or confident that if he was seen his presence wouldn’t be considered unusual. On the whole Treasure favoured the approach by stealth. In either case the perpetrator of Louella’s death could count on accident as the verdict.

  What then if a murderer learned Jacks had entered the house at five and not noticed escaping gas? What if the same person learned the postman might be naming him — or her — as a caller? What if a murderer knew Jacks had divulged his information to Treasure — withholding names only — and that Treasure had pressed him to inform the police? In that circumstance would another swift, credible-seeming accident eliminating Jacks be enough to close the affair?

  Of course, it was far more likely any supposed murderer had gone ahead without knowing Jacks had had a confidant. But even assuming he knew about Treasure, would the risk have still seemed reasonable to this audacious character? The chilling answer seemed to be ‘just possibly’.

  With Jacks out of the way, it would be up to Treasure first to fulminate any suspicion, then to offer uncorroborated hearsay as evidence of a preposterous double killing.

  Most people wouldn’t care to become involved on such a basis — especially important people. There’d be the consideration of unpleasant publicity; the possibility of the whole thing being a ghastly mistake; the risk of looking plain foolish. And all three thoughts had been through Treasure’s mind: perhaps a murderer had been counting on it.

  Even so, there had to be corroboration of a kind. Jacks had told someone else, perhaps more than one other. Had one confidant tried to shut him up with money? Had another taken his life? Neither would be bursting to provide confirmation: one, Treasure considered grimly, might be watching events, wondering whether to kill him too.

  The sound of running right behind him made him spin round.

  ‘Damn. I wanted to surprise you.’

  It was Tracy Mane, barefoot and breathless, a comely waif in her duffel coat and a sandal in each waving hand.

  ‘You did surprise me,’ he answered gruffly. She had scared him out of his preoccupied wits.

  ‘Shall I do my Isadora Duncan on the beach? It’s very good.’ She danced around him twice.

  ‘It depends what you believe Isadora Duncan did on beaches,’ he replied, less ruffled.

  ‘Whatever you have in mind, sir.’ She grasped the hem of the open coat and dropped an elaborate curtsey.

  He looked about self-consciously. An elderly couple were regarding them from the promenade. ‘Get up, you’re making a spectacle of us.’ He was glad it was nearly dark.

  ‘Goody!’ She locked both her arms around one of his and fell in step with his long stride.

  ‘Won’t your feet catch cold?’

  ‘Not if you take me somewhere warm and dry.’

  ‘I’m not taking you anywhere. You’re a hussy and a baggage.’

  ‘And you’re such a dish, and pompous, and so very hard to get.’

  ‘And the last is the only valid reason for the attraction, if any actually exists, which I doubt. If it does, I can promise you the reason will endure.’

  ‘See what I mean?’ She stuck her nose in the air. ‘ “And the last is the only valid reason for the attraction, if any actually exists”, pom, pom, pom.’ It was an excellent parody, complete with an exaggerated mime of Treasure’s characteristic straight-backed, long-pacing progress. She held on to him more tightly. ‘I’d do anything for you.’

  ‘Then you can tell me what sort of car your father runs.’

  ‘Why, d’you want to borrow it? It’s a Metro. He’s terribly pleased with it. Washes it every Saturday. Why do you really want to know?’

  ‘I’m doing a survey for British Leyland. Remember you told me he went to see Lady Brasset on Friday? D’you know what time?’

  ‘Mmm. I asked him. He can’t remember. Not exactly. It was after tea. Why all the questions?’

  ‘Pure curiosity.’ He paused. ‘Promise me something?’

  ‘Anything.’

  ‘It’s not that sort of a promise, but it’s serious. I don’t think Mrs Quaint should have told you her husband went to see Lady Brasset last evening. He wouldn’t like it.’

  ‘You mean he’d beat her up if he knew she’d told me?’

  ‘Of course not. He’s not that type.’

  ‘Wanta bet?’

  ‘Anyway …’

  ‘Anyway, I won’t mention it to anyone. Why’s it such a dark secret?’

  ‘It isn’t. It’s just that …’

  ‘He’d beat her. OK.’

  He changed the subject. ‘Did you hear about the other accident at the Brasset cottage?’

  ‘No? Someone hurt?’

  ‘Eddy Jacks, the postman. Killed himself working one of those hedge-cutter things.’

  ‘Oh no! Poor Mr Jacks. Oh dear. He was such a sweet little man. He was in the hotel at lunch-time. Just after you left. He was looking for Daddy.’

  Chapter Fourteen

  ‘Fact is Cynthia and I, well … we love each other deeply.’ And with this halting and strangely unaffecting declaration, Pitty handed Treasure a whisky and soda.

  The living-room, like the rest of the apartment was on the second floor of a large, red brick, late Victorian house. On the two floors below were the Tophaven offices of Pitty and Co., Solicitors. There was an attic storey above.

  The house was one block inland from the sea, but with nothing but a public garden in front to affect the view. It was at the other end of town to Sandy Lane.

  This room, and Treasure guessed the rest of the living area, had been styled by a competent and probably pricey decorator. The ceiling had been lowered, the lighting diffused. There were angled spots on the good pictures — a big Donald Blake landscape over the fireplace, a pair of John Piper etchings on the opposite wall; near the door, a striking Bruno Hollander watercolour of a girl’s head.

  The furniture was mostly modern. The chairs wide, chunky and in leather — like the long sofa. There were numbers of glass and metal tables, and bookshelves. A fairly discreet bar took up one corner, some dulled steel gadgetry in another was playing a piano recording, though the sound came from all around.

  The window wall was now a dramatic gold velvet curtain, in contrast to the others which were painted white: with the drapes pulled back there was probably a good view of the pier.

  It was six o’clock and dark outside. The blazing ‘log fire’ was a gas-operated phoney, but comforting. The whole impression was of a well-heeled bachelor’s pad. Treasure had no desire to see the bedroom for fear envy might strike.

  ‘It’s none of my business. I didn’t come …’ he began.

  ‘I know you didn’t. You carried the thing off so well, though. Saved our bacon, I can tell you. We both feel — that is, Cynthia and I want you to know it’s not just an affair. She made a terrible mistake marrying Algy, but there’s nothing to be done about it. In the circumstances, nature has to take its course.’

  ‘You mean you’re quietly waiting for him to shuffle off this mortal coil so you can marry his wife.’ It came out sounding harsher than he’d intended. It hadn’t been he who’d raised the subject.

  ‘That’s the ticket. Yes,’ replied Pitty, persisting with his passé idioms and apparently impervious to slight. ‘He’s OK for his age, you know? Heart’s a bit dicky as you gathered. Not that serious, though. Last for years, probably.’ The accompanying expression reflected selfless, stoic resignation.

  ‘Dashed awkward, of course,’ continued the lawyer, as though explaining some unavoidable business clash. He was pouring himself a gin. ‘She keeps up the façade pretty well, though, don’t you think? I mean you’d never guess she wasn’t crazy about … well, his mind. That was it at first, you see? Bowled over by the old intellect. I mean, brilliant chap in his day.’

  ‘You and Cynthia have known each other some time?’ One had to say something.

  ‘Oh yes. Long before she met Algy, as a matter of fact. She was a secretary at Ribert and Glens up the road. When I was a partner there. Do take a pew.’ He motioned Treasure towards an armchair, taking one opposite himself. ‘Not that there was anything going on between us then. I was still married at the time, of course.’ The tone now was sternly sanctimonious.

  Treasure steeled himself to the non sequitur: the man was either stupid and naïve or else he assumed other people were. ‘Ribert and Glens? Did they act for the insurance company who had the freehold on the Round House?’

  ‘Used to. The Rackburn & Claremont, you mean? They lost the business years ago.’

  ‘When the company changed hands perhaps?’ ‘About then … yes … I should think so.’ Pitty was suddenly hesitant and began choosing his words more carefully. Treasure’s disclosed familiarity with the insurance company seemed to have sounded some kind of alert.

  ‘They didn’t come to you? Was it about the time you set up on your own?’

  ‘Might have been. Conflict of interest, though. Algy Tring was what you might call a founder client of mine.’ One wondered whether the status had deserved the consequence. ‘He came over, like a lot of my old clients at Ribert’s. Plenty of partners there, of course. Small conflicts of interest don’t matter then. Often saves the customers money to use the same solicitors if relations are friendly. Awkward in a very small outfit.’

  Treasure nodded. ‘Of course, Canon Tring was — still is — the Round House leaseholder. Loyal of you to choose keeping his business instead of taking on an insurance company.’ He was unashamedly fishing with flattery.

  ‘The Rackburn is a small show, I believe,’ said Pitty, again on his guard. ‘Insurance companies tend to share out their legal work, you know. Conveyancing, and so on. That way they’re in touch with more solicitors across the country.’

  ‘Which opens more sources of business for them. It’s two way.’ Treasure hardly needed lessons in that field. But he also knew the Rackburn had effectively ceased trading. ‘I suppose some lawyer made a reasonable turn on the Round House deal yesterday. Not to mention the newish owners of the Rackburn & Claremont. I gather, incidentally, one of the directors lives here in Tophaven.’

  ‘Indeed? Yes, I think I knew that.’

  ‘Name of Sydney Smith.’

  ‘Mmm. Lots of those around. Whisky?’

  Treasure declined. The first drink had been a stiff one and he was still nursing half of it. ‘Might I use this phone to confirm my dinner reservation for tonight? Norfolk Arms in Arundel. I have the number here.’

  ‘Be my guest. Dining with a client in Brighton myself. Otherwise I’d have suggested we got together,’ Pitty claimed jovially. He went to the bar to replenish his own drink while Treasure made the call.

  ‘… and you’ll ring me back right away? Thank you.’ The banker replaced the receiver as Pitty returned to his seat. ‘Line to the restaurant engaged.’ He took a sip of his whisky. ‘Returning to the lease business, I know Seawell will be grateful for anything you can do to push that one along. Mrs Tring — Cynthia — seems to have softened a lot over the termination. Every day counts, I gather. The compensation they have in mind is sensible. By the way, might I see the lease?’

  Pitty was in the act of swallowing a large draught of gin and tonic. After the question he was convulsed by a fierce fit of coughing and spluttering. The banker made to get up and offer help. Pitty waved him back to his chair, forcing brief smiles between the paroxysms. ‘Sorry’ — more convulsions. ‘Swallowed a nut’ — heavy intake of breath. ‘Wrong way’ — apologetic grimace, followed by several painful-looking gulps and then more coughing.

  Treasure had watched similar reactions to surprise situations acted out on the stage without ever finding them entirely credible. Now he wasn’t sure whether he had provoked just such a consequence in real life, or whether Pitty’s choking had been coincidence.

  The lawyer wiped his brow. ‘Phew! I do apologize. You were saying?’

  ‘I mentioned to the Canon I’d be interested to see the Round House lease. He said you had it. I gather it’s the original head lease composed by Sydney Marshford himself, or under his careful direction.’

  ‘Of course, if you’d like to see it. I could send you a copy.’ The other paused. ‘Can probably find it now. Must be somewhere downstairs …’

  It was one of those offers where the speaker by his tone was begging a reprieve — a ‘please don’t bother now’ or a ‘some other time will do’ response.

  Treasure was not inclined to be lenient. In the first place he had ceased entirely to trust Pitty’s declared motives. As much to the point, he’d done the fellow an enormous favour earlier in the day: he deserved his pound of flesh. Finally, the whole purpose of the visit had been to see that lease.

  ‘If it wouldn’t be too much trouble?’

  ‘Not at all.’ Pitty got up. ‘Shouldn’t take a moment. Help yourself to a snort when required.’ He hurried out of the room.

  A few seconds later the telephone rang. At first Treasure ignored it, assuming it would also be ringing wherever his host had gone. Then he remembered he was waiting for the Arundel call.

  ‘Hello. Tophaven 273 …’ he was about to add his name but never had the chance.

  ‘Pitty? This is Richard Brasset. I can hardly hear you. Damn awful line again. Shout if you can hear me.’

  ‘Quite clearly, but …’ Treasure hollered. He could hear the caller reasonably well though there was a good deal of crackling.

  ‘Good, I just caught that. Let me do the talking. I can’t make it to England for ten days. You’ll have to have the funeral without me. At least gives you time to figure what you’ve done with my mother’s money. Did you hear?’

  ‘Yes, but I really must …’

  ‘It’s two in the morning here. I’ve been four hours working on that mishmash of figures you telexed. They don’t make sense, Pitty. I’m not a fool …’

  ‘Dr Brasset, this isn’t Pitty.’

 

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