Death at the Jesus Hospital (30 page)

Once Powerscourt had finished speaking, Johnny Fitzgerald commandeered the telephone. He had to wait a long time for the recipient of his call to find what he wanted but he joined Powerscourt and Lady Lucy in the drawing room with a huge grin on his face.

‘Thought I’d just make a little inquiry of my own about this fellow Allen,’ he began. ‘It’s not conclusive as there are plenty of Allens about. I’ve just been talking to the army records people in Brecon. I bought a lot of malt whisky for a captain there who seemed to have a couple of brains to rub together, saying as I left that I might call back later or want more information. The last records of the First and Twentyfourth Regiment of Foot, the Warwickshires, taken three or four months before the battle of Isandlwana, unfortunately, do show an Allen in the ranks.’

‘Did he have an initial, Johnny?’ asked Powerscourt.

‘He did.’

‘And what was it?’

‘It was W. He could have been a William or a Walter or a Waldo or a Willoughby. And he could, of course, have been Wilfrid.’

There was one further message from Devon before Inspector Devereux set off for Paddington Station and the West Country.

The man with one eye had made his fortune by taking great care over his business deals, never leaving any stone unturned and never taking any unnecessary risks. Now in his splendid house overlooking Salcombe harbour he stood by a minute gap in the curtains on the great first-floor windows and thanked God he had taken precautions. Early on during his stay he had secured the services of the head porter at the Marine Hotel. In return for large sums in cash that official had promised to keep him informed of any developments that might not be welcome. So he knew now that the police were making detailed inquiries about him. He knew there were plans to close off the town with officers posted across all the roads leading in and out of Salcombe. He knew, too, that more police and an investigator called Powerscourt were on their way from London. He looked again at the two notes he had received from the hotel that morning and finished one of his own, to be taken to the Marine by the waiter who came to collect the remains of the lunch. He had consulted his train timetables and discovered that the train he thought the London people would arrive on should reach the town shortly before seven. Ever since he arrived in Salcombe he had a plan of escape if the need arose. He looked up at the sky. Dusk, that would be the time. As the light began to fade over the town and the harbour, he would make his move.

Sergeant Mark Vaughan had been very busy. He had taken over the two rooms on the Cliff Road side of the Marine Hotel with the best view of Estuary House. When his forces grew more numerous, a constable would be on watch there twenty-four hours a day. He discovered the answer to the laundry question, that the clothes were washed in the hotel and transported to and fro in an enormous wicker basket. He had secured from his friend in the estate agents the name, Giles Coleridge, and the address on the King’s Road,
Chelsea, for Chesterton’s Estate Agents who had arranged the lease on Estuary House and sent them to London. About four o’clock he began wondering why a man with murderous intent would come to Great Britain and choose to stay in a place like Salcombe. Surely London or Bristol or even Southampton where the liner came in would provide better places to hide. The answer might be linked to London’s questions about a boat. Why had these people come to Salcombe?

Perhaps, Sergeant Vaughan said to himself, they are thinking of escaping by sea. You could sail out into the English Channel and reach Plymouth in a couple of hours. If the boat was a good one with an experienced crew you could sail more or less anywhere. He suspected a mere sergeant would not be very welcome at the Salcombe Yacht Club where they had a reputation for looking down their noses at most of the population. He was right. A superior sort of flunkey told him that they had no idea of any visitors with boats or yachts. It was all they could do to keep tabs on their own vessels. When the sergeant pointed out a large and handsome yacht on the East Portlemouth side of the harbour, clearly visible from the club’s windows, the man from the Yacht Club said it had nothing to do with them, and did the sergeant mind, there was rather a lot on today with a dinner for eighty people in the evening.

Praying quietly that some god of the sea, possibly Poseidon himself in a bad mood, would wreak a terrible vengeance on the Salcombe Yacht Club, Sergeant Vaughan made his way to the solicitor’s where a friend of his worked who was a member of the local Lifeboat. Freddie, for that was the name of the lifeboat man, told him that they had only discovered the details of the boat the previous week.

‘She’s called
Morning Glory
,’ Freddie told him. ‘And here’s the strange thing. Nobody knows the name of the owner. Well, he’s not properly the owner, she’s rented from some man in Southampton for three months. Even then, whoever
the man is, he got a firm of ship’s agents and chandlers in Southampton to do the deal.’

Just like the estate agents from London and the house, the sergeant said to himself.

‘Tell me this, Freddie, has she been out for a sail since she’s been here?’

‘Well, yes, she has, a couple of times. You know Nat Gibson, that chap who’s almost a professional ship’s captain? Lives in Island Street round the corner from here? The chandlers in Southampton commissioned Nat to go there and sail the boat back here. He’s paid to be ready to go at a moment’s notice.’

‘Have you seen Nat around recently?’

‘I have, as a matter of fact. But he won’t say a word to you or anybody else. It’s written into his contract that he’s not to speak to a single human soul about his work on the
Morning Glory
.’

‘Not even a policeman?’

‘Especially not a policeman. Look here, Marky, what’s going on? Is there some wicked gang hiding out in the York Hotel? Up at the Marine with the quality perhaps? Planning to steal all the fish?’

‘I can’t tell you, Freddie, I really can’t. But can I ask you a favour? Whatever is going on may involve the
Morning
Glory
later on. And we, the police, may have need of a vessel of our own at very short notice. Could you put the word out among the lifeboat crew to be ready to go this evening?’

There was an air of scarcely concealed excitement in one of the first-class carriages on the afternoon train from Paddington to Penzance with connections, among others, to Kingsbridge, where the railway company provided their own bus, decked out in the company livery just as if it were a train compartment, to convey passengers the few miles to Salcombe. Inspector Devereux informed the party that
they could have gone by boat but the bus was believed to be quicker as long as there weren’t too many farm animals on the roads.

Johnny Fitzgerald went to sleep as soon as the train left London. Lady Lucy was busy with a recent E. M. Forster,
A
Room with a View
. Powerscourt and the Inspector were deep in conversation, the Inspector trying to construct a timetable for Allen’s activities since he left South Africa.

‘God knows what’s going to happen this evening,’ the Inspector told everybody, ‘but I think I can promise you one thing with absolute certainty.’

‘What’s that, Miles?’ said Lady Lucy who had been calling the Inspector by his Christian name ever since she had danced with him at the ball.

‘By ten o’clock this evening,’ the Inspector said, ‘we shall have a visit from a chief constable, come to wash his hands in the blood or the glory.’

A tall police sergeant stopped the bus on its way into the town shortly after half past six. At the sight of Devereux’s uniform, they were waved on. Horace Ross had decided to show off his very best rooms in the Marine Hotel to the visitors from London. Who knew how many friends they could tell when they returned to the capital. Powerscourt and Lady Lucy were in the Imperial Suite with a vast sitting room complete with balcony looking out over the harbour. On either side of them, like sentries on parade, were equally luxurious rooms for the Inspector and Johnny Fitzgerald. The telegraph quarters were one floor above. Ross had already provided an office in the shape of the spare dining room, with great glass windows looking out over the waters. A wind was getting up, causing ripples on the surface. Inspector Timpson and a couple of constables were waiting for the visitors.

Inspector Devereux cleared his throat. ‘Gentlemen, Lady Powerscourt,’ he began, ‘this is what I propose
should happen immediately.’ There were, as he was well aware, regional proprieties and regional sensitivities to be addressed here. ‘With your permission, Inspector Timpson, I think one of your constables should keep watch in that room on the top floor overlooking Estuary House. You and I should go with the other constable and speak to this man Allen, if that is his name.’

Powerscourt raised a hand and was about to speak.

‘With respect, Lord Powerscourt, I think this initial meeting should be handled by the police. You will be more than welcome to join us when an arrest has been secured. But these people are killers. Three people have lost their lives. We are paid to stop bullets, my lord. You are not. And there is one final argument in favour of your staying here for the moment.’

‘Which is?’ said Powerscourt.

‘I could never forgive myself if I made Lady Lucy a widow.’

With that the two Inspectors marched out of the room. Everybody else rushed to the top floor on the landward side. They watched as the two Inspectors ran up the slope towards the front door. They watched as they rang the bell several times. They saw them disappear round the back where a loud crash a few minutes later spoke of some back door being kicked in. They watched as lights went on all the way through the house, from the basement to the huge living room with the harbour view to the top rooms with their own little balconies. Lady Lucy swore afterwards that she heard a mighty volley of oaths shouted into the evening air shortly after the top floor was illuminated. Then they saw nothing until two dejected figure could be seen making their way back to the Marine Hotel.

‘There’s nobody there,’ Inspector Devereux told the company in the Marine Hotel office. ‘The birds, as the man memorably said, have flown. We haven’t lost yet, but we’re bloody close to it. Where have they gone? When did they go? How in God’s name did they get out?’

Inspector Devereux was looking at his notes. Inspector Timpson was looking at his boots. Powerscourt was
walking
up and down. He hated failure. Johnny Fitzgerald had purloined the hotel wine list and was inspecting it with some interest. The constable was standing to attention in a corner. They could hear Sergeant Mark Vaughan before they could see him, his boots rattling across the Marine Hotel’s well-polished boards. Inspector Timpson was the first face he recognized.

‘Inspector Timpson, other Inspector, sirs, madam,’ he began, telling himself to present his news in an orderly fashion. The events might be dramatic, but there was no place for drama in the telling of them. ‘I believe the people in Estuary House have gone, Inspector Timpson, sir. There is a path from the side of the house leading down to the water that is so overgrown it is almost secret. At dusk or in the dark a man would be virtually invisible. The party from Estuary House have a yacht, sir. It is called
Morning Glory
and is normally moored in the harbour here on the East Portlemouth side across the water. It’s not there now. They have also contracted an experienced sailor called Nat Gibson who’s almost a professional boat captain. He left his house in Island Street about forty minutes ago. It is my belief, sir, that he will have picked up the Estuary House people at the Yacht Club landing stage just round the corner from this hotel.’

‘Does anybody know where they might have gone?’ Inspector Devereux felt they were back in the hunt now, some way behind the fox admittedly, but not out of contact altogether.

‘I haven’t told you the most important bit, sir.’ Sergeant Vaughan felt he had never had a more interested and
interesting
collection of listeners. ‘The Salcombe lifeboat, fully crewed, is at your service for this evening and however long it may take. They should be by the landing stage in five minutes’ time. They can take two people on board.’

‘Well done, young man, well done indeed.’ Powerscourt was now staring out of the window, up the harbour towards the open sea which lay a couple of miles away.

‘Sergeant Vaughan here is a local man, Inspector, Lord Powerscourt.’ Inspector Timpson had never known a case like it. It had started the afternoon before with an inquiry from the Met. Twenty-four hours later you were preparing to embark in a lifeboat in pursuit of some murdering villains who have hidden themselves away on your patch for months.

‘I’m sure the lifeboat coxswain will have an idea where they might go to, sir.’ Sergeant Vaughan was wondering if he might be one of the two people on the lifeboat. It was, in a manner of speaking, he thought, his lifeboat, as he had ordered it into action, but he suspected he might be too junior. ‘From here they could go down the estuary towards Kingsbridge if they wanted, but I don’t think they will. They’d be sailing into a channel they couldn’t get out of. They’d be trapped. I think they’ll head for the open sea. If they turn left at Prawle Point they could sail round the coast towards Dartmouth, or Torquay, or Exeter even. Go the other way and they could reach Plymouth fairly quickly. Dock the yacht, or leave Skipper Gibson to sail it home, and they could be on a train in a couple of hours.’

‘Could I suggest,’ Powerscourt was not going to be left out of the action this time if he could help it, ‘that Inspector Timpson, as the local man, and myself go on the lifeboat?
Inspector Devereux, your expertise on the telegraph will be sorely needed here. We need to contact various other forces about possible railway escapes. Important
information
may also come in from South Africa. And in any case, apprehending the villains, if we do apprehend them, is only the beginning. The real interviews start when the suspects are back on dry land, not rolling up and down in the swell out on the open sea.’

Inspector Devereux laughed. ‘Very good, my lord. I would just like to ask Inspector Timpson if I could borrow Sergeant Vaughan while he is away. We need to contact the nearby lighthouses and suchlike places to keep watch. His local knowledge will be invaluable.’

‘Of course,’ said Inspector Timpson.

Powerscourt gave a name and a phone number to Inspector Devereux before he left. ‘Tell him it’s tonight. Suggest he leaves as soon as he can. God speed.’

Devereux whistled to himself when he read the name of the recipient. ‘Come on, Sergeant,’ he said to Mark Vaughan as he led the way upstairs to the telegraph room, ‘we’ve got work to do.’

Powerscourt and Inspector Timpson were ushered to their seats at the rear of the lifeboat with that careful air seamen have with landlubbers they suspect may be about to fall in. The
William and Emma
had a crew of twelve this evening, wearing their uniforms of dark grey trousers and jackets, their oars raised to the vertical position as they sidled up to the landing stage, now back in the water as they headed for the sea.

‘We’re after that big yacht, young Mark told me, sir,’ the coxswain, whose name was Robbie Barton, said to Powerscourt and the Inspector. Barton was a cheerful little man in his early thirties who worked as a fisherman by day. ‘You mightn’t think so, looking at this boat, that it could
move quickly but it can. I’m sure we can make up some ground before we reach the English Channel.’

‘If you were a villain, trying to escape from justice,’ said the Inspector, ‘which way would you go once we reached the sea?’

‘I don’t rightly know. We don’t have to decide which way to turn yet.’

They were past East Portlemouth now, little more than a collection of cottages, and were heading towards Mill Bay, a small beach, on their left. The wind was growing stronger. There was a full moon, only visible occasionally through the cloud cover. Powerscourt was shivering with cold. The lifeboatmen were unaffected, pulling vigorously at their oars. As they passed the remains of Fort Charles and Salcombe Castle on the right-hand side of the harbour, the moon cleared for a couple of minutes. ‘There she is!’ a young lifeboat man at the prow shouted. ‘She’s just up there by South Sands. By God, she’s lovely to look at, that yacht.’

Johnny Fitzgerald had persuaded one of the waiters that it was vital for the success of the operation that he, the waiter, should open one of the hotel’s bottles of Chateau Lafite immediately. Johnny felt the Lafite would be wasted on the run-of-the-mill hotel guests with no knowledge of the great wines of Bordeaux. Refreshed by his first glass, he persuaded Lady Lucy to join him on a mission to Estuary House. They might find something useful, he said.

The lights were still blazing on all floors as they made their way round the back and in through the broken door. They started at the top and worked down. It seemed that the three men had separate rooms on the top floor. One was incredibly tidy, so tidy, Lady Lucy discovered, because all the clothes and other possessions had been removed. It looked, she said to Johnny, as if there were only two of them now. The other bedrooms showed signs of hasty departure,
the odd sock or jumper left lying on the floor. The biggest room, they decided, must have belonged to Wilfred Allen, if that was his name. There was a powerful telescope by the window, pointing out to sea. Johnny Fitzgerald showed Lady Lucy how the top half of the window had been altered so you could point the device upwards to stare at the stars as easily as you could stare at the sea. Lady Lucy felt a sudden moment of pity for the man who had looked through this lens, hiding in the dark in a tiny English town, thousands of miles from home and consoling himself with visions of the stars turning in their courses across the night sky.

‘Look, Lady Lucy, look here!’ Johnny Fitzgerald was pointing to a strange wooden implement sitting on a
book-shelf
next to
The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes
. It was about two and a half feet long, with a circular knob rather like a thistle at the end. ‘This must be one of those knobkerrie things that Francis was so excited about. And it’s here. This is probably the one used on the victims.’

‘How horrible,’ said Lady Lucy, staring at the thing as if was a malignant snake. ‘Let’s have a look at the floor below. That thing makes me feel quite sick.’ Johnny put it in his pocket.

On the lower level there was further evidence of a speedy departure. Even in a couple of months, it seemed, people could accumulate an enormous amount of rubbish. Johnny was on his knees, examining a fragment of a letter or a note that had missed the waste-paper basket. ‘More police and a private investigator called Lord Powerscourt coming from London early this evening,’ he read, ‘to be here about seven o’clock.’ Johnny read it twice and handed it to Lady Lucy.

‘What do you think of this?’ he said.

‘My goodness! It looks like a note sent to the people here.’ Lady Lucy paused for a moment and looked carefully at Johnny. ‘Surely it can only have come from across the road? Wilfred Allen must have had an informant inside the Marine Hotel. That’s why they left before we got here.’

‘Come on, Lady Lucy,’ Johnny was running towards the stairs that led to the back door, ‘it’s time to find out.’

The men in the lifeboat had fallen into a deep rhythm now. They looked as if they could row for ever. The moon cleared once more as the
William and Emma
passed the Pound Stone. Powerscourt suddenly realized that a noise had stopped. Since they left the harbour the principal sound had been the oars dipping in and out of the water and the occasional command of the coxswain. But there had been another sound, coming from further up the channel which he now realized must have been the engine of the
Morning Glory
. They could see the yacht just ahead, not moving now with the engine turned off, nestling in the tiny bay beside South Sands a few hundred yards away. The yacht’s sails were being hoisted, Nat Gibson scurrying around the little ship.

‘We have to be careful in these waters,’ Robbie Barton the lifeboat coxswain said to Powerscourt and the Inspector. ‘Over there, a mile or so away on the other side of the
channel
, is the Bar, a spit of sand that can be treacherous in the wrong conditions. Many a vessel has come to grief there. They say, Inspector, Lord Powerscourt, that this is the bar Tennyson was thinking of when he wrote his famous poem. He’s said to have spent time in Salcombe. “Sunset and evening star, / And one clear call for me! / And may there be no moaning of the bar, / When I put out to sea.”’

Johnny Fitzgerald and Lady Lucy found Horace Ross,
manager
of the Marine Hotel, in the dining room, keeping a close eye on his waiters. Johnny beckoned him aside into the room reserved for the police.

‘Whose handwriting is this, pray?’ he asked, waving the scrap of paper at Ross’s face. The manager of the Marine looked at it closely.

‘Why, it’s my head porter’s writing, man by the name of Mills, Timothy Mills. What of it?’

‘Simply this, Mr Ross. We found this piece of paper on the floor in Estuary House. It looks as if the recipient was trying to tear the message into pieces and drop them into the waste-paper basket, but he ran out of time. If you read it carefully you will see that it looks as if your Timothy Mills has been sending messages to the enemy, as it were. Could you summon him here for a little conversation, do you think? Now? This minute?’

At Powerscourt’s suggestion the lifeboat coxswain had brought the
William and Emma
to within fifty yards of the
Morning Glory.
The men stopped rowing as Powerscourt rose to his feet. The beach seemed to be glistening in the moonlight.

‘Mr Allen, I should like to speak to you! My name is Powerscourt,’ he shouted across the water between the two vessels. Powerscourt had suggested that they should not get too close in case of gunfire.

There was no reply. Nat Gibson seemed to have
completed
his work with the sails and was returning to the tiller.

‘Mr Allen!’ Powerscourt tried again. The lifeboat crew stared as if spellbound by the sirens as a head, then a trunk, then finally a whole person emerged very slowly from the inner cabin of the yacht. The one eye and the red eye patch seemed to Powerscourt to shriek defiance to the world.

‘I am Allen,’ the man said, glaring at the
William and Emma
with his one eye. ‘I know about your activities, Powerscourt. What do you want of me?’

‘You must know perfectly well what we want of you, Mr Allen. The police and myself would like to question you about three recent murders carried out on your instructions.’

Allen laughed. ‘Are you asking me to give myself up, you fool? I have been in Salcombe all the time for the last three
months and I can prove it. You are very stupid indeed if you think I am going to be convicted of anything at all.’

‘But what of your associates? Your bearded colleague who travelled here second class to murder your enemies?’

‘I have to tell you, Powerscourt, your attentions are becoming very unwelcome. You traced me to this little town. Now you are following me around in that ridiculous wooden boat. You are annoying me, I tell you. I came here to carry out a mission. That mission is now complete. I advise you now to drop the matter, to abandon your inquiries. You may hope to place me in the dock. I tell you that I will never stand in the dock. You hope to beat me. I tell you that you will never beat me. I am going below now. You will never see me again. Gibson, let’s move out of here as fast as we can. Goodbye, Powerscourt. It may interest you to know that while you may have troubled me, your activities in my case were like a fly trying to wound an elephant.’

Ten minutes later, with the wind rising and the shelter of the estuary losing its power, the
Morning Glory
had pulled well away from the lifeboat. Neither Powerscourt nor the Inspector could see any trace of the Bar. But Robbie assured them that they were past it now. Dimly ahead, he could see the bulk of Bolt Head which marked one side of the end of the long estuary and the beginning of the English Channel. Now then, he said to himself, which way is the
Morning Glory
going to turn? As the cloud lifted again they could see her, two sails aloft, heading straight ahead.