Hemlock Bay, page 2
18 March
Today saw the first setback in my quest for justice.
I called McAtee this morning, from a public telephone booth. He answered cheerily and confirmed that he was available to accept new instructions, but as I began to explain what I wanted, he cut me short.
‘Yes, yes, Dr Doyle, that’s all well and good. But I don’t take on new clients by phone. You need to come in to see me.’
‘Is that really necessary?’
‘Absolutely essential. Can we arrange an appointment so you can tell me all about this little job of yours? Does next Monday morning suit?’
‘It isn’t very convenient. Surely if I give you…’
‘A personal briefing is vital, I’m afraid.’ Beneath the jollity, there was evidently an unbending will. ‘Much easier to discuss these things face to face. I’m sure you see the sense of that, Doctor. Better to examine the patient than listen to an account of symptoms on the blower, eh?’
The analogy failed to impress me. ‘I thought that if I explained everything fully and sent a payment on account of costs to be incurred…’
‘Sorry, Doctor, no can do. You see, you’ll want to be satisfied of my bona fides…’
‘Oh, I have no concerns on that score. You come highly recommended.’
‘Very kind of somebody. May I ask who pointed you in my direction?’
‘If you don’t mind, I’d rather not say. It was a sensitive affair and your name was given to me in strict confidence. Indeed my friend was impressed with your own discretion.’
‘Delighted to hear it. Now, as I was saying, when a client engages someone in my line, what’s sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander, if you follow my meaning.’
‘Actually, I’m not…’
‘These things cut both ways,’ he said briskly. ‘You’re placing your faith in me. By the same token, I need to be satisfied that everything is open and above board.’
‘Please. I can assure you…’
‘No offence intended, Doctor, don’t get the wrong end of the stick.’ A slight pause. ‘But I need to see the cut of a client’s jib, if you’ll pardon the expression. You’ve gathered that I have a reputation, and I place a high value on it.’
Given my understanding that McAtee had left the police under a cloud, I thought this was rich, but plainly he was in no mood to relent.
‘Very well.’ I drew in a breath. ‘If you will… allow me a little time to think about it.’
‘Excellent, Doctor. I shall wait to hear from you.’
Without more ado, he put down the phone.
So I am left in a quandary. I am nervous about revealing myself to an experienced detective. Will his keen eyes see through my subterfuge? I have some confidence in my ability to carry off my impersonation of an Irish medical man, but there is another reason for concern. The fewer people who can connect Dr Seamus Doyle with Louis Carson, the better.
But, as Cheetham said, this man McAtee is at the head of his peculiar profession. Can I afford not to hire his services?
20 March
I have made up my mind. Life is never free of risk and it is self-deception to believe otherwise. Even if McAtee never met me, he would be aware that I’d engaged him to hunt Carson down.
The more I think about it, the more my confidence grows. If I can persuade an experienced detective to believe in the existence of Dr Seamus Doyle, I will have passed my first serious test with flying colours. It is one thing to fool a bank clerk or a landlady, quite another to deceive a man such as Joseph McAtee.
I shall telephone him later today to arrange a meeting.
27 March
Tonight I am tired but relishing the heady delights of having played a part to – if not perfection, then to the very limits of my ability.
I travelled to London last night, assuming the guise of Dr Doyle for an evening meal in Bloomsbury before spending the night in Gower Street in readiness for my appointment at ten o’clock the next morning.
McAtee’s office is on the first floor of a scruffy building tucked away in a side street near King’s Cross. He has no secretary, the battered Underwood on his desk indicating that he types his reports himself.
In person, he dwarfs me. Broad-shouldered and balding, he has a ready smile and pumped my hand with such vigour that I feared he would break a bone. He is a man of fifty and quite unlike the sleuth-hound of my imagining. The resemblance to a genial grocer is so marked that I half expected him to urge me to buy some cauliflowers.
‘Good of you to make the time to come over, Doctor,’ he said, as if I’d done him a special favour rather than acceding to a condition he’d imposed. ‘I’m sure you’re a busy man. Patients to see and drugs to dispense?’
The wooden chair he’d ushered me into was as unsteady as it was uncomfortable. I felt at a disadvantage, as if at any moment it might give way beneath me.
‘I’m retired,’ I said briefly. ‘I returned to Britain recently after a long time in South Africa.’
‘Marvellous country!’ He gave me a searching look. ‘The Cape, was it?’
My heart sank. ‘You’re familiar with that part of the world?’
He beamed. ‘Sad to say, Doctor, I don’t have much time for travelling. Maybe one of these days, eh? By comparison you are quite a globetrotter. Which part of Ireland are you from, may I ask?’
‘I was born in Wexford. But let me get right to the point. I need you to trace someone for me. Is that the kind of work you undertake?’
‘Certainly, certainly.’ He rubbed his hands, his expression gleeful. ‘This isn’t a divorce matter, then?’
I shook my head.
‘Splendid, a change is as good as a rest! I get a lot of business in connection with unhappy marriages and, between you and me, it can become a trifle… samey. Makes me glad I never tied the knot myself. May I ask a question before we proceed? What if the individual you seek does not wish to be found?’
For all the bland amiability of his words, I detected a sharpness in his pale blue eyes as he studied my reaction.
I let out a sigh. ‘I’m a bachelor and not in the best of health. After so many years out of the country, I’ve lost touch with the people I knew. I have no close family left and given my uncertain health, it’s only sensible to consider making a will. There are a number of people I’d like to consider as heirs. One of them is the man I’d like you to find. The son of a friend of mine who once did me a great kindness.’
McAtee beamed. ‘I’m sure you’re good for many years to come, Doctor!’
I tried to look wistful. ‘If only I shared your confidence. But that is immaterial. The question is whether you are able to trace Louis Carson.’
‘What can you tell me about him?’
‘Very little, I’m afraid. I didn’t know his father well, which made me all the more grateful for his generosity. He and his wife died when Louis was still quite young. I never met the boy and can’t even give you a description. I heard a vague rumour once that he’d had a difficult time after losing his parents. Got into bad company, more than likely. So he may be down on his luck and in desperate need of financial help. On the other hand, he may be highly respectable and making a success of his life. All I can really tell you is that about nine months ago, he was in Brighton.’
‘And how do you know that?’
‘He sent a postcard to a mutual friend, who hadn’t heard of him for many a year. It arrived out of the blue last June. My understanding is that Louis wasn’t enjoying a holiday at the seaside, he was actually living in the town. More than that, I’m afraid, I cannot say.’
McAtee rubbed his chin. ‘Not much to go on, Doctor.’
I ventured a smile. ‘Now you understand why I need to engage your services.’
‘Well, what about this mutual friend? He might be able to shed more light…’
‘Impossible,’ I interrupted. ‘He died recently, while travelling abroad.’
‘Pity.’ McAtee rubbed his nose.
‘I doubt he could have helped. By the way, I should emphasise that I don’t want Louis Carson to become aware of the enquiries I’m making.’
‘No?’
‘Definitely not.’ I paused. ‘If, for instance, I find that he is disreputable, I should not wish to mention him in my will.’
‘Very well, that’s understood. What sort of age is he?’
This was one of the questions I’d dreaded, because I simply had no idea. I gave a heavy sigh.
‘I’m afraid I’m far from sure.’
‘Rough idea?’
‘Perhaps late thirties,’ I said, hoping that my guesswork wasn’t absurdly inaccurate, ‘but quite possibly older than that. Forty-plus. I’m sorry to be so vague.’
McAtee raised his eyebrows. ‘Not easy to make bricks without straw, Doctor.’
The time had come for me to take a risk. ‘Of course, if you feel that the task is beyond you, I’ll understand.’
McAtee leaned across his desk. ‘So you want me to find one Louis Carson, last heard of in Brighton nine months ago? You don’t know the man’s age or what he looks like?’
‘When you put it like that,’ I said, risking a rueful smile, ‘it does sound as if I’m asking the impossible.’
‘One thing you learn in this business, Doctor, is that nothing is impossible.’ He relaxed back in his chair and folded his arms. ‘Very well, then. Shall we discuss terms?’
And that was that. He asked no more awkward questions and was no doubt happy to accept a sum on account of his fee and expenses that was as much as, in these depressed times, many working men can earn in half a year.
‘When can I expect to hear from you?’ I asked as I was leaving. ‘I am away from home a good deal at present, but you have my address for correspondence.’
‘I’ll report once a fortnight,’ he said. ‘Sooner, if I turn anything up.’
With that, I made good my escape.
4 May
McAtee has repaid my faith – and my sizeable investment – in him. This afternoon I arrived at Gower Street and found a letter waiting for me. He said he believed he had located the man I sought and would be glad to supply further information if I called into his office at my convenience.
I preferred to telephone. Our first meeting had gone as well as I could have hoped, but I did not want to risk subjecting myself to his scrutiny once again. What if I made the mistake of revealing my true feelings about Louis Carson?
Fortunately, McAtee did not insist on my making another appointment to see him in person.
‘You’re in luck, Doctor,’ he said breezily. ‘You gave me a haystack the size of St Paul’s Cathedral, but I finally managed to hunt down your lost needle.’
‘Congratulations.’
‘Thanks. You were right, by the by.’
‘About what?’ I tried to keep the surprise out of my voice.
‘Carson’s age. He’s forty.’
‘What can you tell me about him?’
‘The details will be in my report, but you may like to know that he’s married.’
‘Really?’ Somehow I’d imagined Carson as a single man.
‘There are no children, if that’s a complication that bothers you.’ I shook my head. ‘His wife’s name is Pearl. She’s worked in shops and as a nurse, but mostly she’s been in service.’
I could only feel pity for the woman. ‘You will let me have a full description of him? I’d prefer to get a clear picture of the fellow in my mind before I approach him.’
‘I can do better than that. You can have a snapshot I took when I tracked him down. Don’t worry, he didn’t see me.’ He paused. ‘If you’re still considering the possibility of making him your heir, you may want to know that he doesn’t have a criminal record. Neither does his wife.’
I gripped the receiver so hard that it hurt. ‘Is that so?’
‘And he’s not short of a few bob. To say the very least.’
I made a non-committal noise and waited. I had the impression that McAtee was keen to assess my reaction to what he said, and I was determined to give nothing away.
‘Yes, he’s acquired some business interests in the north of England. Buyer’s market these days, of course, and he’s taking full advantage.’
Of course he has, I thought grimly. Carson specialises in taking advantage of people.
‘So he is no longer in Brighton?’
‘Correct. That didn’t half complicate the business of tracing him, believe me. But this is your man, as sure as eggs is eggs.’
‘How confident are you?’
‘I’d stake my life on it.’ He sounded affronted, as if I’d cast doubt on his professional integrity. ‘I’ve checked exhaustively; that’s why my investigation took a good while. Nobody else by the name of Louis Carson has lived in Brighton for the past three years.’
‘Where is he now?’
We were coming to the crunch. I had a vague fear that Carson might be living the high life in the south of France or on Capri.
‘Still living by the seaside. His adopted home has become a fashionable watering hole.’
‘He’s moved there permanently?’
‘Yes, he’s gone into partnership with the fellow who built the resort and has taken charge of the main hotel in town. I took his picture from a shelter as he walked by. He was strolling along the cliffs as if he owned them. Maybe he soon will.’
‘So where exactly is this place?’
‘Lancashire.’ McAtee made it sound as remote as the North Pole. ‘Name of Hemlock Bay.’
2
‘Marvellous, don’t you think?’
Rachel Savernake stood back to admire the painting Cliff Trueman had hung above the art deco sideboard. The latest addition to her collection occupied pride of place in the elegant drawing room of Gaunt House.
In the whole of London, there were few finer residences in private hands. An outsider would expect the domestic staff to number upwards of a dozen, especially given that Rachel had money to burn. Yet between them, Trueman, his wife Hetty, and sister Martha did everything necessary. No blood tie connected Rachel with the Truemans, but the four of them were as tight-knit as the closest family. There was no question of anyone else working at Gaunt House.
Trueman, shirtsleeved, folded his beefy arms and scowled at the hotchpotch of bright colours and irregular lines. A dozen examples of surrealist art jostled for attention in the drawing room, but this was the most inscrutable of all.
‘Put me out of my misery. What is it?’
She raised her eyebrows. ‘Do I gather you’re unmoved by the artist’s vision?’
His grunt was eloquent. ‘You want my honest opinion?’
‘Always.’ She smiled. ‘Though I suspect I’ll live to regret it.’
‘I can’t fathom what you see in this stuff. It makes no sense to me. Looks like something out of a kindergarten.’
She pretended to flinch. ‘I asked for honesty, not brutality.’
‘Look at it, a jumble of meaningless shapes. I can’t make head nor tail of it. What’s the point? It’s not as if you need to cover up a damp patch. I daren’t think how much you forked out for it.’
‘Don’t try to guess,’ she said gaily. ‘I’d be heartbroken if you dropped down dead in front of me. I paid a fair price, let’s leave it at that.’
‘You were robbed, whatever you spent.’
‘Believe me, I beat the dealer down until he was almost sobbing with pain. My final offer was a fraction of his original asking price. His first sale in a month, so it was easy to drive a hard bargain. The Slump has devastated the demand for fine art.’
‘Fine art?’ The big man’s face creased with incredulity.
‘Fine art, yes.’ A touch of steel entered her voice. ‘The strangeness of surrealism enchants me.’
He shook his head. ‘Takes all sorts. You always were one of a kind. Determined to go your own way.’
‘Believe me, the best avant-garde artists of today will be admired long after you and I have shuffled off this mortal coil. Quite apart from its intrinsic merit, this painting will prove an excellent investment. Not that I have any plans to sell.’
‘Pity.’
She laughed. ‘You’re such a curmudgeon. A true Philistine.’
As she spoke, Martha Trueman bustled in. Like Rachel, she was in her mid-twenties. As far as the outside world was concerned, she worked as a housemaid. Within these four walls, she and Rachel were as close as twins.
‘He enjoys being grumpy,’ Martha said. ‘Anyone would think he’s in his dotage. If I didn’t know better, I’d never believe he’s not quite forty.’
Her brother glared. ‘Age doesn’t come into it. Don’t tell me you can make any sense of a series of random splodges?’
Martha considered the artwork. ‘I like the vivid shades of orange and brown, yellow and blue. The way he’s mingled them together is… intriguing.’
‘Highly diplomatic.’ Rachel pointed to a squiggle in the bottom right hand corner. ‘But your detective skills are getting rusty. The artist is female.’
Moving closer to the painting, Martha screwed up her eyes and peered at the tiny signature.
‘Virginia… Penrhos?’
Trueman made a scornful noise. ‘Looks like she finds it hard enough to write her own name, let alone paint.’
‘Don’t underestimate her,’ Rachel said. ‘I’m the first to admit that her work is uneven, but I admire her ambition. Her willingness to take chances. She’s one of the women taking surrealist art in fresh directions.’
‘You said the same about Damaris Gethin,’ Trueman said in a low voice. ‘Didn’t do her any good.’
‘No.’
Rachel’s expression darkened. A few weeks earlier, the shocking death of Damaris Gethin had led the pair of them to a fatal rendezvous in a house in a quiet cul-de-sac in Rye. They would never forget Sepulchre Street.
