‘She wouldn’t if she had realised that the tide was going out.’
‘Just so, sir. If she had realised. Just so.’
CHAPTER 6
SERIOUS DOUBTS
‘Ah, salt and sterile as her kisses were,
The wild sea winds her and the green gulfs bear
Hither and thither, and vex and work her wrong,
Blind gods that cannot spare.’
A.C. Swinburne
« ^ »
Somewhat shattered by the interview with the Inspector, Palgrave decided to leave Stack Ferry at the end of the week. The plot of his book was maturing in the most irresistible and comforting way. All that remained, he thought, was to write the story. That would be done more conveniently in his London lodgings than in the claustrophobic, barely furnished little upstair room at The Stadholder, especially if it was going to be open to police inspection at any hour of the day or night. He recognised this last thought as psychotic and wondered whether he was becoming the victim of a persecution mania. This must at all costs be suppressed. He could not afford to have irrational fears come between him and his novel.
He thought he had settled upon his heroine. She was to be a femme fatale in her early thirties, beautiful, sophisticated, incredibly attractive, but he realised that she was turning into Morag, and this was the last thing he had either envisaged or wanted. He made a determined effort to turn her into the Camilla he had known. She would have to be older than Camilla, of course, and that coltish immaturity changed to suit his theme, but Camilla it would have to be. In bed that night he wondered (and found himself worried about it) whether in death she was going to haunt him even more effectively than, during the few days of their acquaintanceship, she had attempted to do in life.
He began to think over everything he knew about Camilla.
It was precious little, but that, he realised, would prove more of an advantage than the reverse. She would have to be provided with a background. He wondered what sort of childhood she had had, how and when she had lost both her parents and under whose testamentary dispositions she had obtained her modest but undeniable private income.
He knew that she had shared a London flat with three other women all older than herself. He had heard little about them from Camilla, but Miranda had told him more. There was fat, dark, slightly moustached Gerda who, like Miranda, taught part-time at the art school and otherwise painted racehorses, pedigree hunters and showy little trotting-ponies. There was Mevagissey, descendant, (according to Camilla, who obviously had not believed the claim) of a hundred earls and was now in her fifth year at the art school because she had set her cap at the principal and was still hoping to trap him into marrying her. Lastly there was Fenella, who, according to Camilla, was a callgirl when she was not at the art school where, so far, she had not learnt enough even to slap paint on a barn door, let alone contrive a decent picture.
He wondered how soon they had learned of Camilla’s death. Miranda would have told them by this time, even if they had not read of it in the papers. He wondered how they had taken the news. Had they been fond of Camilla, he wondered, or had they regarded her merely as a person who was good for her share of the rent? He began weaving fantasies which became wilder and more unlikely as sleep came nearer to him. When he did fall asleep, his dreams were even more fantastic than his thoughts and filled him with an almost nightmare dread, so that he was relieved to be awake again.
He worked hard all the next morning on his book and in the afternoon took his car out. He cruised around the neighbourhood for an hour or so, followed the road to the south and then came upon a signpost which showed that there was a cross-country route to Saltacres. He had no desire to return there, but concluded that there would be a diversion somewhere along the route which would take him back to Stack Ferry.
Then another thought struck him. Adrian and Miranda would have vacated the cottage and gone back to London, but the Lowsons would still be in possession. A longing came over him to see Morag again. When he came to a turning which would have taken him back to Stack Ferry he avoided it and continued on his way.
He was ready with his excuse for calling on the Lowsons. He would ask whether they knew the Kirbys’ London address so that he could write and thank them for their kindness to him and to ask whether he might call upon them when he got back to his lodgings and take them out for a drink or perhaps to the theatre.
Thus armed, he parked his car in the wide part of the village street where he had always left it, smoothed down his hair and went along to knock on the cottage door.
Morag was alone. She did not seem in the least surprised to see him, but invited him in as though she had been expecting him.
‘Why, Colin, how very nice!’ she said. ‘We were hoping you would call before you went back to London. Miranda was sorry you didn’t go to the funeral, but Adrian said it was understandable, as you hardly knew the poor girl.’
‘I knew her quite well enough, thank you!’ Palgrave found himself saying.
‘Oh, dear, yes, I know! Well, do sit down and I’ll get the tea. I’m sorry Cupar isn’t here. He’s out sailing. I didn’t want to go, but I’m awfully glad of some company.’
‘I haven’t really come to inflict myself on you,’ said Palgrave. ‘I just wanted Adrian’s London address, if you have it.’
‘Yes, I do have it, but please don’t hurry away. You don’t look very well, Colin. You’re worried about that poor girl’s death, aren’t you? So are your friends, you know. They’re so worried that they are going to do something about it.’
‘What can anybody do? She’s dead; the coroner has given the only verdict which is possible under the circumstances, and there’s an end of it.’
‘Your friends don’t think so. I believe they’re wasting their time and that of the police, but they are determined to keep the case open.’
‘But, Morag, there simply isn’t a case, and when you call them my friends, well, I hope they are, but I’ve only known them since I came down here.’
‘Yes, they told me. You were a stranger and they took you in – literally, not metaphorically, of course.’
‘It was really Camilla’s doing, I think, although the invitation was supposed to come from them. I wish to goodness now that I’d refused it.’
‘Because this drowning business has happened? My thought is that it would have happened anyway. I think the verdict was right. The poor girl chose the wrong state of the tide, got carried out to sea on an undertow, couldn’t get back and was drowned. The incoming tide brought the body back to shore and somebody – that man who gave evidence at the inquest – found and reported it. It’s all simple enough and it’s the sort of thing that must happen every year during the holiday season on some part of the coast. People who ought to know better will do these daft things, and you must know, being one of them yourself, as I well remember, that there is nobody so arrogant as a strong swimmer.’
‘She wasn’t all that strong a swimmer,’ said Palgrave. ‘She wasn’t nearly as powerful as you, from what I remember, but she couldn’t have drowned that last night I was here. The tide was still coming in. Mind you, if later on she did bathe on an outgoing tide and got carried out to sea, I don’t think she could have fought her way back. I had the devil of a job myself that time I was fool enough to pit myself against the undertow. It was terribly alarming and one tended to panic, which certainly didn’t help matters.’