Smile and be a Villain (4 page)

When we woke up it was mid-afternoon, and we decided to find the police station to check on what more, if anything, had been discovered about the man on the cliff. Someone in the shop next door told us where to find the station. It was only a few yards away, up a side street called Queen Elizabeth II Street (another royal visit, probably), but known to everyone, predictably, as ‘QE2' Street.

‘Victoria Street. QE2 Street,' I commented. ‘For a place that isn't actually part of England they're sure devoted to the royal family.'

‘I believe they're quite loyal to the Queen,' said Alan. ‘It's their government that's independent, not necessarily the hearts of the people.'

We passed a small bookshop on the way to the station. I was tempted to stop, but first I wanted to hear what the police had to say.

The station turned out to be in part of a very imposing building. ‘Courthouse?' I ventured.

‘My dear, I don't know. It does say “Court Office”, so you may be right.' He pointed out the sign I had missed, and I felt foolish.

The police station was indeed small, but quite official. The outer door was unlocked, but there was a reception desk behind glass with a microphone and speaker; very big city. No one was seated there, but when Alan cleared his throat, PC Partridge came into the room.

‘Ah. Hello! I was coming to see you when I went off duty. Come in, won't you?' He gestured to a door at the end of the tiny entry lobby, and moved to let us in.

We sat in what I supposed was an interview or interrogation room, bare and functional, though nothing like as intimidating as the ones in city police stations. ‘You'll have come about the poor American gentleman.'

We nodded.

‘Well, you were quite right, on all counts. He did die of a fractured skull and he was in fact the Mr Abercrombie who'd been helping out at the parish church. We found nothing to indicate that his death was anything other than accidental. The autopsy isn't quite complete, but we've been told his injuries were entirely consistent with the rocks on which he fell. We are trying to learn anything we can about his family, if any, so they can be notified. His passport gave us his address, but so far we've been unable to find a phone number attached to that address.'

‘His cell phone? I mean mobile?'

The constable smiled at my Americanism. ‘He had apparently bought a new one when he arrived in England.'

‘But – I thought Alderney wasn't England.'

‘You're quite right. But Mr Abercrombie spent several weeks in England before he journeyed here, according to his passport. That is, he arrived at Gatwick Airport some three months ago. His passport isn't stamped for arrival here; as you know, visitors from England are not usually subject to customs or immigration formalities. But Mr Lewison steered me to one or two of the ladies who attend the Parish Church regularly, and they say the chap had come to Alderney about a month ago. One assumes that, since he apparently meant to stay in these parts, he found it more economical to buy a phone here rather than pay the charges for international calls.'

‘So the only numbers stored in the phone were English and – what's the adjective for Alderney? – Aldernian?'

He laughed. ‘There isn't one, really. Just Alderney. And yes, only local phone numbers.'

‘So – where was he staying?'

‘A small holiday rental in town, near the High Street. And yes, Mrs Martin, we have looked in his rooms for anything that might help us to find his next of kin, and were unsuccessful.'

I don't blush anymore, but if I did, I would have then. ‘I'm sorry, Mr Partridge. I don't mean to interfere, or to suggest that you don't know your job. I'm just incorrigibly nosy.'

‘And we're both relieved,' said Alan, taking over smoothly, ‘that what appeared to be an accident was indeed that. Of course we're sorry about the poor chap, but I dealt with far too many murders
and
suicides in my career to want anything to do with another one.'

He gave me a look that meant ‘keep still'. I obeyed.

We all stood. ‘Thank you, constable, for giving us so much of your time. If we should happen to hear anything about Mr Abercrombie's American connections, we'll be sure to let you know.'

We were shown out politely, and I waited until we were a few steps away from the station before saying, ‘You didn't want him to know about the murders I've investigated.'

‘No. We're not going to get any further involved in this unfortunate incident, and I don't want him coming to you if he does have questions later. It's enough that you're American, like the victim. Let's not suggest that you're also a competent sleuth.'

‘Alan.' I stopped walking and looked him straight in the eye. ‘You don't think this “accident” was entirely accidental, do you?'

‘I have no reason to think otherwise.'

‘That's what the constable said. It sounds like the sort of things politicians say when they're trying to weasel. It means that neither of you is entirely convinced.'

‘Let's go find a pint somewhere,' he said.

It was, we discovered, happy hour at the Georgian House, the restaurant/hotel just down the street from our B & B. We got our discounted pints and found a quiet corner, and after Alan had taken a healthy swig, he put his glass down and ran a hand down the back of his neck. ‘I don't know what I think, and I don't like it. There's not a shred of a hint of a suggestion of evidence that Mr Abercrombie didn't simply tumble down that treacherous slope and break his head.'

‘And yet,' I prompted.

‘And yet, I'm not entirely happy about it. I don't know if you noticed anything about him.'

‘As I said, I tried not to look.'

‘Understandable. But I did look him over while we were waiting for the police. He was wearing excellent hiking boots, well worn. Ergo, he was an experienced walker. I didn't notice his stick, but I saw PC Partridge find it and pick it up as we were making our way back down to the road. It looked like a good sturdy one with a business-like spike on the end.'

‘I didn't see that. It must have been one of the times when I was crawling down practically on my hands and knees. Not my finest hour.'

‘I consider that you did very well. It's not the sort of terrain you're accustomed to. At any rate, here was a seasoned walker with appropriate equipment, and the path isn't as steep as all that. True, going up was far easier than going down, but then it always is. I simply cannot understand why he should have fallen so hard. If he slipped, he could have caught himself with the stick. Or he might have tumbled for a little way, but there's plenty of underbrush he could have caught hold of to slow his fall.'

‘And he didn't?'

‘I'm not an expert in such things, but I did look around and saw nothing crushed or uprooted. He seemed to have simply fallen headlong.'

‘So you think he was pushed.'

‘Dorothy, you know better than to make that sort of assumption! No, I don't think he was pushed. I'm just not entirely happy about how he came to fall.'

‘And then there's …' I paused, not certain how to go on.

‘And then there's what?'

‘Oh, probably nothing. It's just that we both got the impression that the guy might not have been as universally beloved as he was painted.'

‘So, you're saying, someone might have had reason to push him down the cliff.'

‘Now who's making unwarranted assumptions!' I finished my beer. ‘Are you going to have another?'

‘Not unless you want one. I'd like to do a bit more walking before we go and find some dinner.'

‘But not on the Zig-Zag.'

‘Definitely not on the Zig-Zag.'

W
e decided to walk around the town, taking a look at the residential part. There was actually a bit more to the town than we had thought at first. Victoria Street had nearly cornered the market on commercial establishments, though there were a few pubs and shops farther afield. The High Street, at right angles to Victoria Street, had one or two restaurants, as well as the pub and off-licence Alan had already found. There were a few more pubs scattered here and there, and a small but first-class supermarket. We saw houses of various vintages, including one with an impressive red archway that Alan thought might be very old, though heavily remodelled over the years.

By the time we found an impressive building that called itself the Island Hall, I was more than ready for my dinner. ‘Do you know where we are?' I asked plaintively. I do not possess a bump of direction. I can read a map, but without one I'm helpless.

‘More or less,' he said, smiling at me. ‘I believe this intriguing little stair will take us back up to the High Street.'

‘If you say so.' I wasn't prepared to climb too many more stairs, but this one was, as Alan said, intriguing. There were only a few steps, with a nice safe railing, and at the top was a small churchyard.

‘But the church is over there somewhere, isn't it?' I pointed wildly.

‘More like there.' Alan moved my arm. ‘But the medieval one was here. See the tower? It's all that's left.'

‘How do you know all that?'

‘I picked up a leaflet in St Anne's. It has a brief mention of the earlier building. Now, love, if we go this way we'll be in the High Street, and then Victoria Street's up at the top, and Nellie Gray's is not far away.'

‘I'm not dressed up.'

‘You'll do nicely, I'm sure.'

Nellie Gray's turned out to be terrific. The décor was typically Indian, the personnel were friendly and the food was outstanding. We were told that there had, some years before, been a traditional English restaurant there called Nellie Gray's, and when the Indian proprietors took it over they kept the incongruous name, as well as the lovely portrait of the lady in question.

We left well satisfied, and talked, as we walked back to our room, of many things, not including the body on the Zig-Zag path.

It was after nine thirty when we arrived back at our B & B, but the sky was still light. Though I've lived not far away for several years now, I still haven't quite got used to the incredibly early dawns and late dusks at midsummer in this land, every part of which is north of every part of the lower forty-eight back home. ‘Alan, it's a beautiful evening,' I said on impulse. ‘I don't feel like going to bed. It feels like late afternoon. Let's walk down to the harbour and work off some of that dinner.'

‘We'll probably have to walk back up again,' he warned. ‘I doubt we'd get a taxi at this hour. And you've already walked quite a lot today.'

‘That's all right. Something about the air here is rejuvenating. And we slept late this morning. I'm good for another hour at least.'

He tucked my arm through his. ‘We'll take it at a stroll.'

We reached the bottom of Victoria Street, and I pointed to the left. ‘Why don't we go this way instead? It might not be so steep.'

‘Dorothy, I don't have the map with me. We wouldn't want to get lost, with night coming on.'

‘How lost can we get? The whole island is only about three miles long. If we keep going down, we're bound to get to the harbour eventually.'

‘If we
can
keep going down. I suspect there will be some uphill spots as well. However, nothing ventured, nothing gained.' We headed off to the left. I opened my mouth to start a verse of ‘The Happy Wanderer', but remembered in time that people might be sleeping. It was getting late, even if the sky didn't look like it. I'm afraid I tend to get carried away when I'm feeling good, and my voice would never win any of those talent shows on TV. I contented myself with a modest hum, and Alan hummed along, and there weren't any houses nearby anyway, so we weren't bothering anybody.

The road was very different from the one we had taken to the harbour before. That had been wide and residential. This one, after we passed a school and what might have been a hotel or resort or club of some sort, became very rural. We came to a place where the road veered off to right or left, with no signposts and no hint of which way we might want to go.

‘Darling, I've no wish to damp your spirits, but it's going to be quite dark soon. I think we'd best be heading back.'

‘I think you're right, much as I hate to admit it. But wait a minute. I want to see what this little lane leads to. It looks as though it should end at some special place.'

Moving ahead of Alan, I found that what it led to was a pocket garden. Nightfall was, as Alan said, not far away, so I couldn't see many details. Scents, of roses and other flowers I didn't know, perfumed the air. Crickets chirped. The scene was one of absolute peace and contentment.

Except that someone was sitting at the far corner of a large central flower bed. It had a low wall around it, and the figure was just visible in the diminishing light. It sat quite still, bowed in an attitude of utter despair. I heard one stifled sob.

I turned away as quietly as I could, took Alan's arm and headed with him back up the road.

‘Should I have tried to help?' I asked Alan as we were getting ready for bed.

‘My love, that's impossible to say without knowing more than we do. I didn't see the person at all. Was it a man or a woman?'

‘I couldn't tell. It was getting darker by the minute. All I could see was a hunched-up shape; all I could hear was a sob. I felt I shouldn't intrude on such grief, but maybe …'

‘You did what you thought was right at the time. If the person had wanted comfort, he or she wouldn't have gone so far off the beaten path. Stop fretting about it and come to bed.'

I crawled in beside him. ‘It isn't just that. It's been … quite a day.'

‘Better tomorrow.' He yawned and reached out his arm to draw me close. Just before I slipped over the edge into deep sleep, an idea tried to swim up into my consciousness, but I was too far gone to catch it.