The newspaper report was short, but it was at the bottom of the front page, otherwise (for he was not a man to read a paper assiduously) he might have missed it. It stated that a body washed up on the shore near the village of Saltacres had been identified as that of Miss Camilla Hoveton St John, a summer visitor from London. Foul play was not suspected.
When he had assimilated this laconic information, Palgrave went out to get a copy of the local paper. This had a longer and more detailed account. Camilla, it stated, was thought to have bathed on an outgoing tide and drowned in a vain effort to reach the shore. Bathing along that part of the coast was safe enough when the tide was right and Miss St John was said to have been a capable swimmer, but she liked to bathe at night and must have mistaken the state of the tide or trusted too much in her own strength and skill. Fatalities had occurred before in that neighbourhood, but visitors were usually warned by local boatmen, or other residents, of the dangers of a powerful undertow, and there was evidence that this had been done in the present case. By day a swimmer in difficulties might be able to attract attention from a passing yacht or somebody on shore, but at night this was unlikely, nor would the hoisting of a danger cone or other warning device have been effective under the circumstances. Few people bathed alone on that part of the coast, even by daylight. To bathe alone at night was asking for trouble. Moreover, there was more than a mile to walk from the village to the sea. However, Miss St John was accustomed to bathe alone, but, most unfortunately, had done so once too often.
Palgrave got out his car and drove eastwards to Saltacres and the holiday cottage. Miranda, her plump, usually happy face clouded with shock and grief, and Adrian, haggard and with his cheeks fallen in, were alone. If he could be glad of anything at such a time, Palgrave was glad of this.
‘The inquest is to be on Monday, at Stack Ferry,’ said Miranda. ‘We were to have gone home, but of course we must stay up for it. Will you be there, Colin?’
‘Yes, of course. Will you tell me all that has happened?’
‘But we know nothing of what has happened, except that poor little Camilla is dead. We can’t believe it has happened. She was so young, so vital, such a good swimmer. She had this thing, if you remember, of bathing at night. She thought it was romantic’
‘But she bathed in the daytime, too. I’ve been in with her once or twice, and so has at least one other chap. I’ve seen them together.’
‘I suppose there was nothing much else for her to do here but bathe and wander about. We brought her because we thought she might like to paint scenery that was new to her, but she has done very little work down here.’
‘By the way, what has happened to the Lowsons?’
‘Cupar and Morag? Oh, they hired a boat and a boatman and have gone sailing. They are kind people and thought we would prefer to be by ourselves for a bit. Not much fun for them, anyway, with us so concerned and sad, and visits from the police and all that,’ said Miranda.
‘Oh, the police have been here, have they?’
‘But of course. They asked all sorts of questions. It could be a case of suicide, you see.’
‘But nothing worse?’
‘Oh, Colin, of course not!’
‘What questions did they ask?’
‘Oh, whether she was accustomed to bathe alone.’
‘Was my name mentioned?’
‘Of course.’
‘Do they know we bathed together the night before I went to Stack Ferry?’
‘We told them that, because you had told Adrian you did, but that you had gone to Stack Ferry and could know nothing about her death. The fact that she came back here and packed her suitcase and took it away proves that she could not have been drowned that night.’
‘Has the suitcase been found? The report in the newspaper – the local paper – said nothing about it. Have the police traced it, I wonder?’
‘We know nothing about the suitcase. She must have found other lodgings and the suitcase will turn up there. But there is nowhere in the village where she could stay.’
‘She must have been shacking up with some man, don’t you think? One of the summer visitors who had rented a cottage?’
‘That is what we wondered, too. You know what she was like.’
‘Somebody she met that day she took my car, perhaps, or the chap I saw her with once. If that is so, ten to one the chap won’t be too anxious to come forward.’
‘Why not? The death was an accident.’
‘What else did the police want to know?’
‘Only whether she was happy or had anything on her mind. Well, of course, if she had anything on her mind, it was men, but we did not tell them that.’
‘Why not?’
‘Well, but, Colin, the poor child is dead! We couldn’t put her in a bad light now!’
‘Are the police likely to come here again?’
‘I shouldn’t think so,’ said Adrian, speaking for the first time during the interview. ‘I suppose it depends on what comes out at the inquest. I just simply hope nothing does.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Nothing will ever convince me that Camilla swam when the tide was going out. Even by night she’d have known what it was doing, which way it was running. She knew all about the dangers of this part of the coast and, besides, she had a manual of tide-tables.’
‘I suppose—’ began Miranda.
‘Yes?’
‘Well, you know how fond she was of you, Colin.’
‘Fond of me, my foot! I was just another man to be pursued, that’s all. If you’re suggesting that she came after me to Stack Ferry and oiled herself in at The Stadholder, well, simply, she didn’t. She didn’t even know where I was staying, did she?’
‘She could have asked around until she found you,’ said Adrian.
‘She never came anywhere near me at Stack Ferry. What if she had done? She wasn’t drowned there. The tide sets the wrong way for that. She would have been carried – oh, no, perhaps she wouldn’t though. Anyway, whether she came to Stack Ferry or not, I certainly saw nothing of her there.’ He realised, too late, that he was on the defensive and that Adrian knew it.
‘Not to worry, Colin,’ he said kindly. ‘The police seem satisfied that she bathed alone on an outgoing tide and at night. That will be the end of the matter. I’m glad she had no parents. I hate breaking bad news.’
The inquest was soon over. Adrian went through the formality of identifying the body and the medical evidence of death by drowning was clear. There was only one unsatisfactory detail, but on this neither the police surgeon nor the pathologist was prepared to be dogmatic. Neither would commit himself as to the exact time of death to within a period of forty-eight hours. The body had been some time in the water, so the usual rate of decomposition had been retarded. There was more explanation given, but perhaps the most important feature, so far as the police and the public were concerned, was that there were no marks of violence on the body and no evidence that the deceased had been other than a completely healthy and carefree young woman who, although she was not a virgin, was not pregnant.
The verdict (to quote the local paper) was a foregone conclusion. The deceased had come by her death accidentally through drowning on an outgoing tide. The coroner pontificated upon this for the benefit of other holidaymakers and the incident appeared to be closed. Palgrave attended the inquest but not the funeral. He returned to Stack Ferry and suddenly found the opening sentences for his book.