Festival, page 14
‘You seem to be an ingenious person, and you’ve obviously studied the market. Half a sec while I slip into the kitchen and make the coffee.’
Piet looked about him. The baby was certainly the child he’d seen last night. There were three or four finished canvases standing against the walls. On a desk in one corner of the room was a pile of typescript, with a sketching pad beside it. Perhaps Mrs or Miss Claridge – the baby suggested Mrs, but you can’t be sure of these things – was a book illustrator. The finished pictures were quite creditable, offering no evidence of either powerful imagination or technique, but with a liveliness about them that was attractive.
‘I like your work,’ Piet said, when she came back with a tray of coffee and a plate of scones.
‘That’s nice of you. I hope you like the scones – they’re my work too.’
The coffee was real, and the scones undoubtedly good. ‘It’s horribly impertinent of me to bring you here when you don’t know me, but I’ve got a big problem, and I need advice badly. Victoria was safely asleep, so I went out for a short stroll this morning, and I actually watched you setting up your easel. Then I watched you at work for a bit before summoning up courage to speak to you. Something about the way you went about things made me feel that I could talk to you.’
‘I don’t know that my advice about anything is likely to be of much value, but you’re welcome to whatever help I can give,’ Piet said.
‘Thank you. Well, it’s like this. I don’t want to rake up all the old arguments about my downtrodden sex, but really things often are difficult for a woman. A couple of years ago I made a mistake and married a man who was –well, I don’t want to run him down, but he wasn’t any good, for me at any rate, and while I was still in hospital having Victoria he went off with somebody else. Claridge is my own name, my name before I was married. Apart from Victoria I wanted to forget about the whole thing, but it wasn’t all that easy. My parents are dead, and I had next to no money apart from what the State could give me. But I was trained to be an art teacher, and although I stupidly gave up my job on getting married I got occasional work from one or two publishers, doing book jackets. Nowadays there seem to be more art teachers than schools wanting to employ them, and with Victoria so young – I was determined on breastfeeding for her – I couldn’t manage a whole time job, even if I could have found one. Then a girl I’d met – she’d known my husband, and I think was a bit sorry for me – told me that she and her sister had some cottages in Cornwall, and there was a vacant one which I could have quite cheaply.’
‘Did all this happen in London?’ Piet asked.
‘Yes, I was living in London. I’d only got one rather down-at-heel room, it was wretchedly unsuitable for Victoria, and the prospect of a cottage in Cornwall seemed enchanting. So I came down to have a look at it, and here I am. There are two sisters, Jane and Harriet. Jane, the one I knew first, lives at Pendenna House – that’s the big house around here – sometimes, but she has a flat in London, too. The other sister, Harriet, lives here all the time. It was really awfully good of them to let me rent the cottage, because they could have sold it as a holiday cottage for a lot of money, and now that I’m a tenant they can’t sell it, even if they want to.’
‘Does it matter to them? If they’re landowners, they’ve probably got plenty of money.’
‘I don’t know. I think the family used to have a lot, but I should say there isn’t all that much left. I know Harriet better than Jane now, and they’ve both been very good to me. Well, I came down here with Victoria, and loved it, but then I found there were things I hadn’t really thought about. The first problem was that I simply had to get hold of a car – you can’t get to any shops, or anything, without a car, and the lanes are too steep for satisfactory bicycling. I could probably have managed with a bicycle and on foot without Victoria, but I can’t carry her with me all the time, and the other cottages have a constant flow of holiday visitors, so there isn’t really anyone I can leave her with when I go shopping. Anyway, I had a bit of luck. There was a local art exhibition on at Tintagel, and I took along a few of my own pictures on spec – and sold the lot! That gave me enough at least for the down payment on a reasonable old car, though I’ve still got to finish paying for it. Like you, I show locally when I can, and there are so many tourists in summer that even quite small places have art shops. I’ve just about managed to keep my head above water, but that’s because I came here in the spring and now it’s summer. What happens in the winter I just don’t know, and that’s what’s bothering me.’
‘Do you get no maintenance from your husband?’
‘Nothing at all. I don’t even know where he is. I can get social security assistance if I’m not earning anything else. It’s a godsend, but it’s not much, and I don’t want to live on State welfare. That’s where I need advice. Last week I got a letter out of the blue from a man called Robert Gellton, who is quite a well known writer of children’s books. I’m afraid I’d never heard of him, though when Victoria is able to read I expect I’ll know all about children’s books. Anyway, it was a most exciting letter, asking if I’d consider doing regular illustrations for his books. He asked me to phone, and when I rang he said that he had seen my work and liked it – the book jackets, I think – but that he had to make up his mind quickly, and if I was interested in the job I’d have to get to London to discuss things at the beginning of this week.’
‘Why was he in such a hurry?’
‘He explained that. He’d had a regular illustrator for years but she’d been killed in a car crash. He’d got a new book nearly finished, but he couldn’t send it to the publisher without pictures. I was sorry about the car accident, but from my point of view it was like an answer to prayer, for he was offering a regular retainer, as well as payment for every illustration used.’
‘You say you’d never heard of him. How did you know he was in a position to offer all this?’
‘I discussed it with Harriet, and it turned out that it was probably Jane who’d suggested me to him. Anyway, Harriet had met him, she said he was a perfectionist about his books, and she thought he had some private means as well as whatever he could make from them.’
‘So you went to see him?’
‘Naturally, but I had a real problem over Victoria. I have to watch every penny and the cheapest way was to go in my own car, but I’d have to spend the night somewhere, and I couldn’t afford a hotel for me and Victoria. I suppose we could have just slept in the car, but I didn’t want to arrive for my interview looking like a hag, and I didn’t know what to do with Victoria while I was having the interview. Harriet came to the rescue. She has a boat, quite a big boat that belonged to her father, which is kept at Padstow, and she was going off for a short cruise on the very days I needed for London. She said that if I’d trust Victoria to her, she’d take her on the boat and look after her for me.’
‘Weren’t you worried about the boat?’
‘Not a bit. It’s a big boat, and both Victoria and I have been on it. Harriet loves sailing, and she’s very good. So again it seemed as if everything was working out according to prayer.’
‘What happened at the interview?’
‘That’s the problem, and that’s where I need advice. I was offered the job all right, but it would mean having to go back to London.’
‘Why?’
‘He said that he often needed to discuss things with his illustrator, and if he’d got something he wanted to talk about, he liked to do it at once. He was offering a retainer of £25 a week with a guarantee of a year’s work. With payment for the illustrations he reckoned that this should work out at about £2,500, and I’d have time to do other work if I wanted to. Well, I’m attracted by the job, but I feel that if I give up this cottage now I’ve just got nowhere. The money’s not bad, I suppose, but it’s not much for living in London, and if anything went wrong with the job I’d be stuck. I quite liked the man and felt that I could work with him, but you can’t know in advance exactly how anything is going to turn out. What do you think? When you told me that you were a professional, I felt that it was almost another answer to prayer.’
‘I’ve never gone in for book-illustrating myself, but I have some friends who know a lot about it, both here and in the United States. I can certainly find out about the standing of the man you mentioned, but probably not before next week. Can you stall for a bit – say you’ve got to find somewhere to live in London, and you just can’t make up your mind all at once. I certainly would advise waiting for some more facts about your man and his books.’
‘I don’t think I can wait. He wants me to ring him today.’
‘Then if you really want my advice, I’d suggest that you turn down the offer. You and Victoria are much better off here than on the sort of money you could earn by freelance work in London, even if the book-illustrating job turns out as well as it seems to promise. I can put you in touch with some calendar printers, if you like. You’d have to convince them that you can do calendar work, but from what I’ve seen here I think you could certainly do things that would sell. And you could do that here, without needing to go to London.’
‘Oh, if you could . . .’
‘I can’t promise what the outcome will be, but I can certainly try.’
‘I think you’re probably giving good advice, but I still don’t know what I ought to do. This might be the start of something really good – I might become quite well-known as a book illustrator. I brought back a copy of the book he’s nearly finished, and I was going to do some sample illustrations to show him. I’m thinking about them all the time. Oh, Mr Johnson, what am I to do for the best – for Victoria as well as me?’
‘I can understand your feelings, but my advice is the same. Stay here. What time are you supposed to ring this man up?’
‘Around three this afternoon.’
‘Look, try stalling, say that you are doing these samples for him, and you think it’s only fair to both of you that he should see them before you make up your mind. If he says that he must have an answer now, turn down the offer. If it’s any help to you to talk about things, I could come back some time about five this afternoon and we can discuss the situation after your phone call. I’m not trying to inflict myself on you, and I shall quite understand if you’d rather I didn’t come. But I know it is a help sometimes just to talk.’
‘I’d love you to come, but I’m interrupting all your work.’
‘Well, that’s settled then.’ Victoria was waking up, and giving unmistakeable evidence that she was hungry. Piet finished his coffee, and got up to go. ‘Don’t worry about the work – it’s not much of a day, and I’m not keen on this light. It’s interesting from a technical point of view, but not much use for calendar reproductions. There’s a shop that sells my work from time to time in Truro, and I want to go there, anyway. I shall have comfortable time to get there, have lunch and get back to you around five. Good luck – and don’t forget that every time that one door closes in life another is quite likely to open.’
‘You’re being wonderfully kind. I’m beginning to think that it really was an answer to prayer that I needed a walk to think about things and summoned up the courage to talk to you.’
VIII
Enlisting Help
PIET HAD NO intention of going anywhere near Truro, but it was a safe distance out of the way, and if Margaret Claridge should happen to meet Harriet Partridge and mention his existence they wouldn’t be expecting to see him round Pendenna. He did want to go to Padstow, and he wanted very much to think. He drove out on the Padstow road which took him through Wadebridge, and in Wadebridge he stopped at a pleasant café. It was still not quite ten o’clock but he’d had a light breakfast and he was not at all sure of lunch. The café offered scrambled egg on toast, and he felt quite ready for it.
What was he to make of Margaret Claridge’s story? As a scheme for getting her out of the way and borrowing her baby it was masterly, but where did it begin? He’d had to be careful not to seem to be cross-examining her about dates, but his impression was that she had been at Pendenna for three or four months. Was the whole invitation to Pendenna part of an elaborate scheme for using her later? That didn’t seem to make sense. He was more than ever convinced that the kidnapping of Jo was to divert him from taking too much interest in the Earl’s Down festival, but three or four months ago it was by no means certain that the festival would take place. True, it had been announced, but the County Council was still arguing with the Government about it, and it was on the cards that another site would be found, or the whole thing abandoned.
On the other hand, if the borrowing of Margaret’s baby was an integral part of the plan to kidnap Jo, the planners had left things remarkably late. Perhaps the invitation to an important interview in London had to be at short notice to leave Margaret without time to make other arrangements for Victoria, but the notice seemed a good deal too short for what had otherwise been intelligent – even brilliant – planning. Again he had the impression that he was following two quite separate strands of events. The note in Jane Partridge’s purse, the taking of Jo and the use of a stolen Mini van to get her to the Downs seemed part of a coherent plot. For Jane to carry her to the festival also seemed logical – a young woman with a baby would evoke no surprise, she could mingle with the fans, and Jo could be handed over to anyone responsible for the next stage in her fate. What was that next stage? It was an ugly plot, and it seemed all too likely that arrangements had been made for Jo to be taken on somewhere it was judged safe to dispose of a little body.
It hadn’t happened like that. Jane’s rendezvous with the horse rider at the standing stones, the elaborate performance with two babies – if there had been any such performance – made no sense as part of any plan to get Jane and Jo to Earl’s Down. Jo had never reached the festival, and whatever fate had been planned for Jo, it was Jane who had been murdered – he was wholly sure that Jane’s death was murder. Why?
It was beginning to look as if Jane had been intended to carry out one plan, but had actually carried out only part of it, diverting the plan in mid-operation to something entirely different. And her appearance at the festival without Jo, but apparently with knowledge of where Jo had been taken, was regarded by somebody as so dangerous that Jane had to be killed. That implied that whoever had been responsible for the original plan to kidnap Jo perhaps still did not know where Jo was. If so, what effect might this have on the behaviour of the original plotters? And if the original plotters – or some of them – did not know what had actually happened to Jo, was it possible that at any rate some of them did not yet know what had happened to Jane? There had been no announcement of Jane’s death, and as far as even most of the police knew she had not yet been identified. Perhaps now there were two sides in the original team of plotters, carrying out quite different plans.
But need they be so different? Jane was certainly implicated in the original plan to kidnap Jo, and the fact that she lived at Pendenna, or at any rate regarded it as her home even though she might spend much of her time in London, was too much of a coincidence to dismiss the Pendenna side of things from her story. The existence of two Pendenna sisters, and the evidence he had now about the borrowed baby, made it next to impossible that events at Pendenna over the past few days had nothing to do with whatever was taking place, or intended to take place, at Earl’s Down.
And how did the schooner come into it? He could see one way in which such a schooner undoubtedly could be useful, but whether she had been used in any such way could be determined only by investigation of her movements. Presumably that could be done at Padstow, but could it be done by him, at least in the time at his disposal? Something was due to happen at Port Gaverne tonight – in connection with what he had no means of knowing, but it seemed fairly certain that the schooner would be calling at Port Gaverne on the night tide, and in the words he had overheard from Harriet, everything would then be ‘ready’ for her. What was going to be ready? Could he continue to play a completely lone hand any longer? He decided that he couldn’t, because he needed organised help. How to get it? He couldn’t emerge as himself, because he was critically ill in hospital; furthermore, it could scarcely be considered proper for a chief constable to wander round doing detective work in someone else’s territory. The best thing would be to go back to the Yard, if Sir John Carfax would have it. That meant a phone call to Sir John, and the sooner he got on with it, the better.
He found a call-box and got through to the number Sir John had given him straightaway. There was a man at the other end, presumably a police officer, not a switchboard operator. He did not ask who Piet was, but said, ‘Hold on a minute, sir. The commissioner is at the Yard, but I can put you through on this line.’ A moment later Sir John himself was on the phone. Not having enough small change for long-distance calls from Cornwall, Piet gave Sir John the number of the call-box and asked him to ring back. The call came through in a couple of minutes, and Piet could talk without worrying about constant interruptions to find the right coins. He didn’t attempt explanations. ‘I haven’t found Jo and I haven’t unravelled anything like the whole story,’ he said, ‘but I have come across evidence which seems to involve a sea-going yacht. She is due to call at a small cove near here on tonight’s tide, to pick up somebody or something – I don’t know what. I need men, possibly to detain her, and I also need help with some other inquiries that ought to be made today. I can’t go to the Cornish police openly, for obvious reasons. Can you let me rejoin the Yard temporarily, and phone Cornwall to ask them to provide assistance?’
‘I can certainly do that, and it seems about the best thing to do. What name do you want to go by? And where do you want me to phone? I shall have to get in touch with the chief constable, of course, but after I’ve spoken to him it will probably be a help if I ring the local superintendent.’
