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A Fortnight by the Sea
Emma Page
A beach holiday is ruined by a murder, committed with a cyanide-sprinkled sandwich.The death of a guest casts a shadow over the summer holiday season at Oakfields mansion.The murder weapon is discovered: a sandwich, seasoned with a good pinch of cyanide.Motives abound among the other holidaymakers staying at Oakfields, a strange and fascinating group of people with plenty of secrets to hide…
COPYRIGHT (#ulink_49d4e1f1-fc3d-51eb-be80-428e29e456c3)
Harper
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)
First published as in Great Britain in 1973 by Collins Crime
Copyright © Emma Page 1973
Emma Page asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
HarperCollinsPublishers has made every reasonable effort to ensure that any picture content and written content in this ebook has been included or removed in accordance with the contractual and technological constraints in operation at the time of publication.
Source ISBN: 9780008175924
Ebook Edition © MARCH 2016 ISBN: 9780008175931
Version [2016-02-18]
DEDICATION (#ulink_eb39ab28-8af5-58d7-8881-acb2a734002e)
for
D. S. P.
with love
CONTENTS
Cover (#u50e7102f-383b-5b2d-bd73-baedf711ea55)
Title Page (#u5e4a5f26-ae3d-54a5-a85d-37bb9b835f78)
Copyright (#ulink_258ff81e-abfb-5ecf-ba66-d6b5bbd81c95)
Dedication (#ulink_c40568fc-cac8-50dc-85bf-da39b07e2a53)
Chapter 1 (#ulink_9406b439-5b16-5be4-876f-b05b70346513)
Chapter 2 (#ulink_a7d8ff44-2e9e-5d18-800f-5db3e2294a51)
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
About the Author
By Emma Page
About the Publisher
CHAPTER 1 (#ulink_11f8bfdb-1cdf-50e2-b01f-0856ac059de7)
A sunny July morning with a salty stir of breeze among the tall green spears of montbretia in the narrow border under the kitchen window. Pauline Barratt looked up from her notebook with its jotted reminders, menus, dates and names; she gave a resigned sigh as her gaze came to rest on the narrow leaves. By the time the scarlet flowerheads broke from their sheaths the summer would be over. It was racing past her as it had raced for the last few years, in a whirl of bookings and cancellations, arrivals and departures, beds to be made up, lunches to be thought of.
Footsteps along the passage, the slightly ponderous steps of someone well into middle age, carrying with them a strong suggestion of purpose.
‘There you are, madam,’ Bessie Meacham said as she came into the kitchen. ‘I’ll get the packed lunches out of the way and then I can start on the cooking. Just the one couple for sandwiches today?’ Saturdays in the busy season might be pretty hectic early and late, but at least they offered a relatively calm spell in the middle.
Pauline turned from the window. ‘Yes. And just one person in for lunch.’ She frowned. ‘I’m not sure yet about the numbers for dinner.’
‘Probably best all round then if I make a good large beef or chicken casserole,’ Bessie said with decision. ‘And I can roast a nice leg of lamb as well. A big potato salad and a couple of cold sweets, should be enough late strawberries to make a flan.’
Pauline felt a touch of the old sense of inadequacy that still visited her fifteen years after she had walked through the front door of Oakfield as a bride of eighteen, not altogether able to credit her good fortune in actually marrying Godfrey Barratt. Bessie had stood waiting in the hall to welcome her – of course she hadn’t been Bessie Meacham then, but Bessie Forrest. She was twenty years older than her young mistress; she had worked at Oakfield ever since she’d left the village school at fourteen.
Pauline had never been able to rid herself totally of the notion that Bessie regarded the house – and the domestic quarters in particular – as her own property. Her impersonally pleasant manner always seemed to imply that Pauline was a temporary interloper to be casually humoured until she saw fit to drift off elsewhere.
‘I don’t think there’ll be any strawberries left.’ Pauline was determined to find some point on which she could assert authority. ‘The beds were picked over pretty thoroughly a couple of days ago. Better make it a raspberry flan.’
Bessie took a loaf from the bin. ‘Mr Meacham’ll find some strawberries for me,’ she said comfortably. ‘Don’t you worry about that.’ She liked to refer by this formal title to the man she had met and married during her holiday in the spring. She had gone off to Torquay with no special thought of romance, nothing beyond what any seaside holiday might be expected to offer – she had been Miss Bessie Forrest for fifty-three years, but that didn’t mean she didn’t have her fancies and inclinations like everyone else even if she’d never previously got as far as the altar.
A piercing ring sounded from the back door. Bessie glanced at the clock. ‘That’ll be the butcher.’ Tradesmen in the nearby town of Chilford still found it worth while to send their mobile shops the four or five miles inland to the prosperous village of Westerhill.
‘Let me see.’ Pauline wrinkled her brow. ‘A chicken, stewing beef—’
‘I’ve got it all in my head,’ Bessie said amiably. ‘No need for you to trouble yourself, madam.’ She went unhurriedly out into the passage.
The flowers, Pauline thought, I suppose I ought to go and see what Meacham has cut. All those vases to be arranged and herself the only person who could be relied on not to make a hash of the job.
From somewhere in the upper regions she caught the drone of a vacuum cleaner. Better go up and run her eye over the bedrooms, make sure everything was being done properly. A small squad of daily women assisted in a piecemeal fashion with the running of Oakfield, each with her own methods, duties, schedule of hours.
In the doorway Pauline turned and surveyed the room with its high ceiling and long windows. One day when there was money to spare – if ever such a day should dawn – it could be transformed into a glitteringly modern kitchen. In the meantime it would benefit considerably from rather more thorough cleaning and tidying than it was getting at present. Or was likely to get before the pace slackened in October.
Ah well – she smiled fleetingly – just as well there wasn’t any question of giving the room a good turn-out just yet; she wouldn’t in the least have relished raising the matter with Bessie. Like many people with an easy-going surface and slightly slapdash ways, Mrs Meacham was capable of fierce resentment at the suggestion that other methods might have something superior to offer.
Pauline made a dismissing movement with her shoulders, stepped into the passage and set off at a brisk pace towards the stairs.
The study at Oakfield was a comfortable room facing south. The furnishings – leather, mahogany, dull gold velvet – were much as they had been in the time of Godfrey Barratt’s father and grandfather.
Godfrey sat at his desk, staring out at the blue and gold morning. Utterly impossible that Osmond’s could fail. A firm of builders known and respected across half the counties of England, providing employment for a host of satellite concerns, sub-contractors, suppliers, manufacturers of everything from a paintbrush to a window-frame. And somewhere pretty far down on that list was Barratt’s, woodworkers and turners, a tiny firm – looked at from the standpoint of the giants – but reasonably efficient and prosperous. Or so it had seemed until four days ago.
Godfrey stood up and pushed back his chair. He thrust his hands into his pockets and paced about the room, still a little dazed by the shock that had struck him on Tuesday morning as he ran a casual eye over the business pages of his newspaper. Just a whisper of rumour at first, the merest shadow of a hint that things might not be everything they should be at Osmond’s, but he had felt the muscles of his throat tighten with apprehension.
By Wednesday morning company spokesmen were blandly asserting in radio interviews that nothing was seriously amiss; when the Stock Exchange closed for business on Thursday, Osmond’s shares stood at a third of Monday’s price; on Friday morning Godfrey assembled his men.
They were very quiet as they waited for him to speak. Their eyes looked back at him with disciplined blankness as if they couldn’t as yet abandon themselves to either fear or hope. Unemployment was at a high level; in a seaside town like Chilford there was scarcely any alternative work for a skilled man. But a miracle might yet happen. Currents might move unseen in the City, fresh capital might flow in from a dozen different sources, political pressures might compel the Government to shore up Osmond’s.
He’d explained the situation as he saw it, he’d answered their questions honestly, refusing to indulge in meaningless optimism.
All that remained to them now was to wait. Every action that controlled their immediate future would be taken by men they would never even see. Only another week to go and the firm would close for its three weeks’ annual holiday. That week would be spent in completing an order for a Chilford builder, the kind of order Godfrey had been accustomed to look on merely as an act of goodwill towards the local community. It occurred to him now with wry force that if his entire order-book had been filled with such benevolent commitments, he would be in a much healthier position.
He flung himself down into an armchair, leaned back and closed his eyes. No point in spending a single further minute in work for Osmond’s – unless the miracle happened. No point in going into the works this morning; there would be no Saturday opening, no overtime of any kind, till the whole complicated muddle was sorted out.
The whirligig of thought began again . . . This is the end of Barratt’s, there won’t be any rescue operation for Osmond’s, you won’t be the only small woodworking firm abruptly stripped of its chief contract, competition will be cut-throat for every other piece of business in sight, you won’t be able to hold out, there’ll be the men’s wages, the relentless overheads, Osmond’s won’t be paying another penny to suppliers, not even for deliveries already made . . . A light sweat broke out on his forehead at the remembrance of the large consignment Barratt’s had despatched to Osmond’s only ten days ago, a consignment for which they would normally have expected payment at the end of the month.
He jerked his eyes open and stared up at the ornate ceiling. They’ll have a receiver in by the end of the month, he thought, still hardly able to believe it, I can whistle for my money.
On the table beside him the phone shrilled suddenly and he snatched up the receiver, glad to be forced out of his obsessive thoughts.
‘Mr Barratt?’ The deep, soft voice of Theresa Onil, edged now with anxiety. ‘I think perhaps you ought to come up to see Miss Tillard, she’s not very well this morning. She asked me to see if you would call in.’
‘Of course I’ll come,’ Godfrey said at once. Elinor Tillard was his wife’s aunt. Headmistress years ago of a girls’ school in Africa, she was now seventy. She lived a short distance away, looked after by Theresa, the half-African girl she had brought to England seventeen years ago. ‘I take it you’ve asked the doctor to call?’ Godfrey added. Miss Tillard inclined to the view that sending for a doctor during a bout of illness was a desperate remedy to be adopted only when all others had failed.
‘Yes.’ A touch of hesitation in Theresa’s tone. ‘It’s the new young man, Doctor Nightingale, I’m not sure he’s—’
‘He struck me as perfectly competent,’ Godfrey said reassuringly. The local doctor – ageing, old-fashioned – had taken himself off a week ago for a holiday in Minorca, he wouldn’t be back for another three weeks. Godfrey had called in a couple of days ago during the evening surgery, to get a renewal of Pauline’s prescription, the stuff she took for her headaches. He’d had a word or two with Nightingale, sized the fellow up. ‘He may be young, but at least that means his methods are up to date,’ he pointed out.
‘Mm, perhaps so,’ Theresa said without conviction, preferring the man she had known for years. ‘Anyway, he said he’d call in shortly after half past eleven. If you could come up about then you could have a talk with him after he’s seen Miss Tillard.’
‘Yes, I’ll do that.’ Godfrey glanced at his watch. ‘Would Miss Tillard like my wife to come along too?’ In the course of the last year or two Godfrey had grown a good deal closer than Pauline to the old lady. He had helped her with one or two business matters, had fallen into the habit of calling in on her on his way home in the evening. She looked on him now as a kind of unpaid confidential adviser. And one of the things she most valued in him was the strict way in which he interpreted the word confidential. He might not be related to her by blood but he certainly shared the same close-mouthed attitude to financial affairs.
‘Miss Tillard didn’t mention Miss Pauline.’ A hint of coolness now in Theresa’s tone. ‘I think it would be better if there weren’t too many visitors at the moment. And I know Saturday morning is very busy for your wife at this time of the year.’
‘Very well then, I’ll see you in about an hour.’ When he had replaced the receiver, he sat for several seconds frowning down at the carpet, then he stood up abruptly and went over to his desk, pulled open a drawer and searched rapidly through its contents. ‘Ah!’ he said aloud a few moments later as he found what he was looking for. He sat down, picked up a pen and began to write.
‘Mr Godfrey not going into the works then this morning, madam?’ Bessie Meacham asked with casual interest when Pauline went into the kitchen at a quarter to eleven in search of coffee.
‘No, I don’t think he is. I believe he said something earlier.’ Pauline dragged her mind back from its preoccupations. She had never set foot inside the works, it had never occurred to either her or Godfrey that she might do so. She made regular conventional inquiries about the state of affairs at Barratt’s and received brief reassuring reports of progress.
‘I noticed his car still in the garage just now.’ Bessie opened the oven door and gazed critically inside. ‘That’s why I asked.’ An appetizing smell of roast lamb drifted out into the kitchen.
Pauline took down a tray from one of the crowded shelves. ‘I expect he’s in the study. I’ll take him a cup of coffee.’ She glanced at Bessie who was carefully basting the meat. ‘How’s the cooking going? Everything under control?’
‘Yes, thank you, madam.’ Bessie continued to ladle hot fat over the lamb. I do wish she wouldn’t address me as madam, Pauline thought with the flick of irritation that still sometimes stung her.
She poured out the coffee and took it along to the study. Godfrey was sitting at his desk, sorting through a bundle of papers. He wore a look of intense concentration, and it appeared to take him a moment or two to realize that his wife was in the room and that she was putting a cup of coffee down on the table beside him.
‘Better not let it get cold,’ Pauline said gently. He glanced up with an abstracted look and then his gaze focused on her. He pushed back his chair and got to his feet.
‘I’m sorry, my dear, I didn’t hear you come in, I was deep in documents and figures.’ He had said not a word to her about his fears over Osmond’s, would continue to say nothing until the very last moment – there was still a chance that the moment might never arrive. He picked up the topmost papers, scrutinized them, slipped a couple into his breast pocket and returned the others to the desk. ‘By the way, Theresa Onil phoned just now.’ He closed the desk and locked it. ‘It seems Aunt Elinor is not very well this morning, Theresa’s sent for the doctor.’
Pauline set down her cup with a little clatter. ‘How bad is she?’
Godfrey began to drink his coffee. ‘Don’t be alarmed, I dare say it won’t prove to be anything very serious, probably just another gastric upset. I know it can’t be very pleasant for her, but I should think in a week or two—’
‘She’s seventy.’ Pauline walked over to the window and looked out at the nodding roses. ‘Do you think we ought to phone Marion?’ she asked in an unemotional voice. ‘It’s quite a long time since she’s seen Aunt Elinor. I feel perhaps she should be told she’s ill.’ She turned round suddenly. ‘Does Aunt Elinor want to see me? Did Theresa say?’
‘I did ask but Theresa thought it would be better if you waited till tomorrow or Monday. Aunt Elinor wants me to go up there this morning, and then there’ll be the doctor, Theresa thought that would be enough visitors for one day.’
‘Theresa Onil takes it on herself to think rather too many things that are not strictly her business. She’s scarcely one of the family.’ And that ridiculous name, Pauline thought with unreasoning prejudice, she can’t even have a sensible name like everyone else. Forty years ago Theresa’s mother, walking gracefully along a rutted track on the edge of the Ashanti forests, had stopped and given directions to a young Irishman, a mining engineer newly arrived in the Gold Coast. The engine of his car was overheated, he was tired and thirsty, he could see no sign whatever of the cluster of buildings he had been assured he couldn’t miss. The girl was young and slender, shyly smiling. Yes, she knew the mine buildings – he had taken the wrong road some miles back; yes, she would come with him in the car and point out the way.
Three months later young O’Neill died swiftly and terribly of blackwater fever and the girl went back to her village. When her daughter was born she called her Theresa after a nun at the mission hopsital; there had never been any need for a surname until years later when the baby had grown into a tall, rather silent girl anxious for education. Onil, her mother had said, standing by the desk in the school office, casting her mind back with difficulty to the young Irishman with his black hair and blue eyes, an improbable figure from a brief, incredible time.
