The Saltwater Murder Read online

  ‘Enough!’

  Posie snapped the black folder shut decisively. She found herself looking hurriedly over at Lovelace, who now passed his hands over his eyes in an incredulous gesture.

  ‘Why is it, old girl, that every time we work on an investigation together, we find the villain of the piece has developed some ungodly obsession with you? You can’t keep them away, can you? Are you sure you’ve told me everything you know about Mr Lyle? Because he evidently felt he knew everything about you…’

  Posie narrowed her eyes. Anger welled within her like a big, useless, surging bubble.

  ‘What do you want, Richard Lovelace? An apology? Because you won’t get one. How was I to know that Amyas followed my cases in this odd way? And what do you mean by calling him a “villain”? Surely you mean “victim”? Get your descriptions right: you were just upbraiding Rainbird for that very same thing downstairs.’

  The Inspector grinned and just for a second he looked like a bashful boy, rapped over the knuckles for acting like a complete toe-rag in the classroom. ‘You’re right. I’m sorry, Posie. This murder seems to have set me right on edge. Of course Amyas Lyle wasn’t a villain; he deserves justice, like every other man. But, oh, I don’t know… these black folders, the secrecy. Something here doesn’t feel right. It all gives me the creeps, to be honest.’

  ‘I agree with you on that, at least, sir. Let’s crack on, shall we? See if we can’t find the handwritten notes George spoke of?’

  ‘Fine. I’ll take this second black folder and you take the Christmas biscuit tin.’

  But before Posie had a chance so much as to remove the lid from the biscuit tin, Lovelace had groaned in disbelief. He was only a couple of pages through the second black folder.

  ‘What is it?’

  Lovelace didn’t answer, but flicked on through all the pages, his mouth a grim line, and his hands tense. Posie couldn’t bear it. She was waiting for the inevitable knuckle-cracking to start up again in earnest.

  ‘Come on! What’s wrong?’

  Lovelace stood up hurriedly, leaving the open folder on the desk, and stalked out into the corridor as if he could no longer breathe the air in the study. He lit up, taking deep drags of his cigarette out of the window. When Posie snatched a look at the open folder he had left behind she could make out nothing more controversial than a formal bank statement on thick blue paper, several dates written down, and names and addresses listed over several sheets of paper. She marched out after Lovelace.

  ‘So? Have you found a suspect for the murder?’

  Lovelace shook his head. ‘No, not a suspect. But maybe a reason for the murder.’ He ground out the cigarette on the outside window-ledge. ‘I had the feeling our chap wasn’t a good ’un from the start. And now I know it for sure. In fact, I’m going to have to hand this particular black folder over to our friends in the Special Branch. Maybe the whole case, in fact…’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Do you know anything at all about the British Fascist Party?’

  ‘Yes, a bit.’

  Posie swallowed, an increasing feeling of foreboding spreading over her. She remembered all too well her trip to Venice the previous November, when Mussolini’s Black Shirts had been much in evidence, infiltrating most public positions, swaggering about as if they owned the place in their glittering medals, carrying guns. She shuddered at the memory of the fear they had seemed to instil in the general public in Venice. The fear they had instilled in her.

  ‘They’re moulding themselves on Mussolini’s Italian party, aren’t they, sir? But they’re mixing up British so-called patriotism and a hatred of the Jews. They’re a cursed bunch of idiots, the lot of them. Sinister fools.’

  Lovelace rubbed at his eyes wearily. ‘Many of the British Fascists’ members believe they’ve simply joined a grown-up version of the Boy Scouts, a patriotic club. Their leader, that strange girl, Rotha Lintorn-Orman, seems to think she’s running a scout pack. But you’re right: it’s sinister. They’re no better than pond scum.’

  ‘But what have they got to do with Amyas?’

  Lovelace emitted a strangled laugh. ‘Amyas was in it up to his eyeballs. I thought it was odd how much of the news scrap-book we found in his desk was focused on German news, on that lunatic Hitler’s trial earlier this year in Munich. It obviously interested Amyas Lyle a great deal.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘You didn’t follow it? The trial?’ At Posie’s slight shake of the head the Inspector continued:

  ‘Hitler had been written off as a madman by most country leaders, but in February this year he was put on trial for treason in Germany, and the way he handled himself in the dock showed a mastermind at work. He managed to get all sorts of helpful publicity for his new Nazi party in just a few days. Fascist movements everywhere are now slavishly following Hitler’s every move; he’s got thousands of new followers, here in Britain especially. Our Special Branch are all a-jitter because of it and they’re busy keeping an eye on the British Fascists. From what I’ve seen in this black folder it seems that Amyas Lyle was giving money to the movement. There are also dates of meetings and names of other members. We’ve been told by Special Branch to look out for members of the British Fascists in our daily work. And it looks like I’ve found one, albeit a dead one.’

  ‘Well, you have no choice, sir, do you? You’ll just have to hand the file in then, won’t you?’

  ‘Yes. I bally well will. When I get a minute.’

  They turned back, defeated, into the study and Posie picked up the red enamel biscuit tin and shook it warily, fearful now of what it might contain. The truth about Amyas Lyle was just getting worse and worse.

  The Inspector was impatient. ‘Don’t worry. It’s not going to bite you, is it, old girl? Open it up, come on!’

  And then he was punching the air jubilantly, and Posie was breathing a sigh of relief. ‘The notes! Dash it all!’

  The biscuit tin contained a small bundle of the things, all folded over, a pink legal ribbon holding them together.

  ‘These are identical to the note we found with the body downstairs,’ enthused Lovelace. ‘Same paper, same handwriting. George was quite correct on that. Let’s have a look at them, then.’

  They unfolded the papers carefully. They had been stored by Amyas in chronological order. Each note contained a line, or a paragraph of black, clear handwriting. They had started up in February of this year.

  Posie began to read them aloud.

  Some secrets last a lifetime.

  Some tears never dry.

  You will pay for what you have done.

  Remember the beach where we used to play? The feel of saltwater on your skin? The sand giving way beneath our feet? The constant danger of slipping in the sea? That’s how YOU should be feeling right now.

  Posie looked across at the Inspector, confused.

  ‘These have been sent every month or so, sometimes more, since February. But they’re not exactly terrible threats upon Amyas’ life, are they? Apart from that third note – about paying for what he’s done – they sound more like a trip down memory lane to me. Lyrical, almost…’

  The Inspector chewed at his lip. ‘Mnnn, I agree. It sounds as if the writer and our murder victim shared a past – a childhood past – or at least a shared reference to a past. It says “Remember the beach where we used to play?” Interesting. At any rate, it seems to rule out the fascist connection we’ve just discovered, eh? There’s nothing so far accusing him of being a fascist…’

  Posie reached for the other notes. She continued aloud:

  How can you live with yourself? Do you make anyone happy? Have you ever made anyone happy?

  You will pay for what you have done.

  Posie looked up sharply. ‘Same words were used in a note before, sir. Obviously, our writer felt it was a point worth hammering home.’

  ‘Obviously.’

  She read on:

  She never stopped thinking about you. You cold-hearted excuse for a man. You don’t deserve to live. You won’t live.

  You’ll be better off dead. Drowned like the rat you are, in a vat of tears.

  Posie felt chilled to the bone. She looked at the Inspector who was standing with his arms crossed, visibly shaken.

  ‘Scrap what I said earlier,’ Posie said in a solemn, humbled voice. ‘These aren’t friendly, lyrical little reminiscences. They had turned into full-on death threats by the end, especially that note: “You don’t deserve to live. You won’t live.” And I don’t think there’s any doubt at all that the writer of these is the same person who sent that note about saltwater yesterday, and who actually caused Amyas to be killed by using nitric acid.’

  The Inspector agreed: ‘I’d say no doubt at all. Although our handwriting expert and Forensics team will check, just to be sure. You’re right that they aren’t friendly by the end, but they do seem to be remembering a very personal past. There’s even mention of a woman: “She never stopped thinking about you.”’

  The Inspector started to pace up and down. ‘I wonder who that woman was? A scorned lover? A wronged female client? Could these be from a man who loved the woman Amyas wronged in some way?’

  Posie shrugged. ‘Why are you assuming the writer – and the killer – is a man? It could very well be a woman. Aren’t something like seventy per cent of poisoners found to be women, sir?’

  Lovelace looked uncomfortable. ‘Well, yes, as a matter of fact that’s absolutely right. This just seems like a man’s crime, somehow. That fish-box, the use of the Porter. The fizzing poison…’

  ‘I don’t think we can guess at this stage, sir. What I find interesting is the reference the writer is making to what Amyas is meant to have done wrong. Is it one thing? There’s reference to paying for “what you h
ave done”. Which implies it was one act.’

  ‘True.’

  For the first time that morning the familiar crackle of energy which usually accompanied their working relationship sparked again. It felt to Posie that finally she and Lovelace were standing looking at this appalling murder in the same way, as a team.

  Posie picked up the red Peek Frean’s biscuit tin again, to replace the notes inside it. ‘Oh, hullo, what’s this, then?’

  Inside the lid, taped on with an adhesive plaster, was a black-and-white picture postcard. In their excitement they had missed it entirely.

  The Inspector took the lid and narrowed his eyes, studying the postcard without removing it. ‘Foreign-looking place, is it? Marrakesh? Israel, or Greece?’

  Together they saw an impressive high dome-like structure on the postcard, bright white and exotic, with flags dotted all about it. But the bottom half of the structure was just a normal building, with a chain of cafés and shops set into it, facing a promenade, with a man standing nonchalantly in the foreground.

  ‘No, it’s not a foreign place,’ Posie said softly. She had seen the tiny sign for an electric cinema, and the familiar triangular symbol of a Lyons Corner House. She knew the Inspector was short-sighted and that he was doing his best not to wear the spectacles he had been prescribed, a touching stab of vanity in a man who you would never have expected it from.

  ‘It’s here, in England. Sure as bread is bread.’

  Posie’s stomach fluttered with dread and she felt the trust they had just built up slipping suddenly away again, and there was nothing she could do about it. ‘If you look at the small writing beneath the image you’ll see it says “THE SPANISH CITY–WHITLEY BAY”.’

  Lovelace looked up, askance. ‘Whitley Bay? Up in the north? Near Tyneside?’

  ‘The very same.’

  ‘Why on earth?’

  ‘Whitley Bay is a popular seaside resort now, sir. The Spanish City is its crowning glory. It’s got a ballroom and cafés and a cinema and a music-hall theatre all tucked away inside it. It was re-opened just a couple of years back, to give a bit of glamour to the north. It’s quite the thing.’

  The Inspector laughed bitterly. ‘You don’t say. We usually just stayed down in Kent for our holidays, Molly and me; did a bit of shrimping at Herne Bay. Nothing adventurous, nothing which was “quite the thing”. Although Molly did once talk of wanting to go up to Scarborough…’ He looked away, lost in another time and place, a time before last year, to when his wife had still been alive. He coughed in embarrassment and looked up at Posie slowly, making a connection.

  ‘Hang on a minute. Weren’t you about to go on holiday to Whitley Bay yourself?’

  The flutter in the stomach again. ‘Yep, that’s right. Tomorrow, in fact. I told Amyas Lyle that exact same thing only yesterday. But there’s no connection from my side. This image could just be a coincidence. I asked him yesterday if he knew Whitley Bay.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘He said he didn’t. But I felt at the time he was acting oddly when he replied, lying perhaps.’

  The Inspector stared at Posie a fraction of a second too long, then jemmied the postcard away from the lid with his fingernail. He flipped the postcard around. It was blank, save for a postmark showing ‘WHITLEY BAY’ and with a typed address for Amyas Lyle’s offices in Lincoln’s Inn.

  ‘No message on it. No proof it’s from the person who sent the notes. It’s just an empty card, which means nothing,’ said the Inspector with some disappointment. He squinted at the postmark. ‘This was sent one month ago.’

  Posie took the postcard and studied it again. ‘Maybe the picture itself was a message to Amyas? Surely the fact he’s stored it in the same place as the notes means something? Although I haven’t a clue what. What are you doing now, sir?’

  Lovelace was suddenly pulling something else from the tin lid, something which had been taped underneath the postcard; a tiny, barely bigger than a stamp-sized note, folded tight, over and over. ‘This tin is like pass-the-parcel,’ he muttered beneath his breath, but with a barely-supressed flicker of excitement. ‘Now, what do we have here?’

  It was another note. But on a different, lightweight paper. The writing was different from the saltwater notes. It was Amyas Lyle’s crabbed black handwriting, familiar from his paperwork in the desk. It was headed ‘SUSPECTS – THOSE WHO COULD HAVE SENT ME THE THREATS’.

  ‘Oh, sir,’ breathed Posie in rising excitement. ‘This could be a break-through, of sorts. Don’t you think? The dead man speaks, and all that guff?’

  ‘Hold your horses, old girl. But yes, it could be just what we’ve been hoping for. I’ve felt like I’ve been bridled on this case so far. Can’t even get a feel for the victim as a person properly. This could show us what Mr Lyle made of things himself. And whatever he was, he certainly wasn’t stupid.’

  He caught his breath, running ahead of himself. ‘Now, let’s have a look. Let’s find out what our dead man says.’

  ****

  Four

  Amyas Lyle’s memo to himself was short, and surprising.

  SUSPECTS – those who could have sent me the threats

  Sawbones Bill

  Antonia - because of FEVER STREET?

  SELWYN

  GEORGE - upbraided him, bears a grudge

  Whitley Bay?

  Posie looked up, having read the memo over a few times to herself. She saw that Lovelace was copying it into his own pad.

  ‘Does any of this mean anything to you?’ she said, frustrated. ‘Apart from the reference to Whitley Bay, of course. So we were right about that, at least; the postcard had got him worried somehow.’

  Lovelace was still scanning the list, as if reading it for the umpteenth time might produce something certain. He raked through his red hair. ‘Nope. I can’t add much. Other than “Antonia”. The murder victim’s wife is an Antonia, isn’t she? Lady Antonia, formerly Roade.’

  Posie’s eyes opened wide in surprise. ‘So Amyas suspected his own wife of this malarkey? These odd threats? That can’t be right, sir!’

  Lovelace almost grinned. ‘Now, now. You were the one telling me to keep an open mind about a female murderer. And you know the statistics as well as I do, Posie. Ninety-five per cent of murderers are closely related to their victims, and a wife couldn’t be a closer relation, could she? We’ll have to ask the wife about Fever Street too,’ he went on, eagerly, ‘whatever that means.’ He was noticeably happier than before, convincing himself of the slightly firmer ground they were now able to stand upon.

  He started to put everything into a large brown ‘EVIDENCE’ bag.

  ‘I wonder, sir,’ said Posie thoughtfully, ‘do you think the reference to a “George” could mean the Head Clerk downstairs?’

  Lovelace looked startled. ‘Perhaps. But George is a mighty common name, you know. It doesn’t necessarily follow.’

  Posie shrugged. ‘Look at the language Amyas used in this note. He said he’d “upbraided” George. Not that he’d confronted him, or taken him to task. The use of “upbraided” to me seems to suggest someone of a lower class. A servant perhaps. Or his Head Clerk.’

  Lovelace sealed the bag. ‘Well, maybe you’re right: maybe Amyas did think George was threatening him. But even if he was, I’d wager he’s an unlikely murder suspect. It’s a big jump, isn’t it, from sending threats to actually killing someone in cold blood. We’ll follow it up later, I promise. After we’ve grilled the wife. That’s who my money’s on.’

  Just then the outside door to the flat banged open.

  Sergeant Rainbird put his head around the study door. In his hands he held two bacon rolls. The smell wafted temptingly across at them.

  ‘Two things, sir. I’ve had confirmation by telegram that the victim’s wife will be returned home from France this afternoon. She’s asked you to visit her at Eaton Terrace at four o’clock.’

  Lovelace grinned. ‘With pleasure.’ Now that he had a real-life suspect and a real-life interview lined up he was like a nervy terrier with a hot scent to follow. ‘And the second thing?’

  ‘I’ve been speaking to the Deputy Head of Chambers again, that Mr Selwyn Pickle, sir. He’s arrived at his London home and says he needs to freshen up and then he’ll come to Scotland Yard to speak to you there. He suggested one o’clock.’