Festival, page 17
‘Certainly. It is 23A, Vespasian Avenue, St John’s Wood, London, but I don’t know if he is there. He is a musician, and travels a good deal to attend concerts.’
‘He will have a telephone, no doubt. Since there is considerable urgency over this matter of identification, would you permit us to use your phone to see if Mr Partridge is available?’
‘Of course.’ She gave Piet the number, showed him the telephone in the hall, and he rang the number himself. There was no reply.
Piet returned to find the sergeant wiping his eyes, and Harriet still calm and expressionless. ‘I can get no reply, but at this time of day that is perhaps only to be expected,’ he said. ‘I don’t think we need ask Miss Partridge to go to Swindon forthwith. London is much nearer, and we can get the Metropolitan Police to call on Mr Partridge as we have called here.’
‘What happens if he is not there?’ Harriet asked.
‘The Metropolitan Police will inform us, and we shall then have to ask you to travel to Swindon tomorrow. We can provide a police car to take you to Exeter, where you can get a main-line train for Swindon – that would probably be the best way. We can also arrange to have you met at Swindon. But these matters can wait until we know whether Mr Partridge is available.’
‘You are very kind. Do you always do this when people have accidents?’
‘We do what we can. People do not always like the police, but our job is to try to serve the community,’ Piet said. ‘You may not like the questions I am compelled to ask you next, but I am sure you will understand that the matter has to be pursued. Do you know if your sister was in the habit of taking drugs?’
‘Certainly not! She was not always here – she often stayed with my brother at St John’s Wood – but if she had been in the habit of taking drugs I am sure that it would have shown in some way. I can say categorically that my sister was not a drug addict.’
‘She died from an overdose of what seems to have been heroin. Can you suggest any way in which this can have come about?’
‘No.’
‘You say that your sister was often in London. Did she have a job in London?’
‘Not exactly. My brother is a musician – he is a vocalist and song-writer for a rock group. My sister plays both the piano and the guitar, and she used to help my brother with his songs. She also sings a bit herself, and when she can get an engagement as a vocalist she is delighted, though I think she doesn’t have many engagements. But I do not know very much about this side of her life, and it would be better for you to ask my brother.’
‘When we can get in touch with him. You say he sings with a rock group – could his group possibly have been at the Earl’s Down festival? What is the name of the group?’
‘The Space Orchids. They have made some records, which you can buy if you want to hear them. I am not a pop fan myself. I do not know if the group had any part in the Earl’s Down festival. It is possible, I suppose, but I don’t know.’
‘Could your sister have gone there with your brother?’
‘Of course she could. But you say that nobody has reported her missing, or made inquiries about her. If she had been with my brother he would certainly have wanted to know where she was. So it doesn’t seem at all likely.’
‘No doubt your brother can provide information about that when the London police get in touch with him. I think there is no need for us to trouble you further now, though we may have to get in touch with you tomorrow morning. Thank you for dealing with my questions so patiently. I take it you will be here tomorrow if we do need to get in touch with you?’
‘I have no plans to go away. Do you think I ought to go to Swindon?’
‘It would help the North Wessex police if you could get down tonight, but it would be a distressing experience for you, and if your brother is available I think it would be best left to him. A few hours will not really make much difference, particularly as your identification of the photograph makes the deceased’s identity reasonably certain. It is for obvious legal reasons that inquests require identification to be as positive as possible, distressing as this must be for relatives. I shall report the position to the North Wessex police, and I’m sure they will agree with me that we should try to get in touch with your brother before asking you to travel to Swindon.’
‘What about the funeral?’
‘When the inquest has been held the coroner will issue a burial certificate. After that it will be for you and your brother – I assume you are the nearest relatives – to make whatever arrangements for the funeral you may wish.’
‘Well, I don’t think I have anything else I want to ask you. Thank you for being as considerate as you could be in the circumstances.’
‘It may be necessary for me to call on you again if the matter of the drug that apparently killed Miss Jane Partridge is not cleared up.’
‘I’ve told you already that I know nothing about it. I should only have to say that over again.’
‘I understand your feelings, Miss Partridge, but evidence may come to light which we may have to ask you about.’
‘I hope it doesn’t. This has been a dreadful shock, and I don’t want to talk about it any more.’
‘We certainly shall not bother you unless it is necessary. Will you be at home this evening in case any further news comes in?’
‘As far as I know. But please don’t telephone unless you feel you have to – I hate the telephone.’
‘God bless you, Miss Harriet. I feel Miss Jane’s death like one of my own family,’ Sergeant Trevithick said.
For the first time Harriet’s face softened slightly. ‘Thank you. Jane would have liked that,’ she said.
*
On the way back to Camelford, Piet said, ‘Why do you think she lied to us?’
‘How did she lie, sir?’
‘Well, we have reason to know that she is meeting her boat on the night tide at Port Gaverne tonight. She said that she wasn’t going out.’
‘She may just have forgotten. After a shock like that she could easily forget about the boat.’
‘Perhaps, though it seems a little unlikely.’ Piet took a sudden decision. ‘Look, Sergeant, I shall have to be at Port Gaverne tonight when the schooner comes in. Superintendent Evans is going to let me have some men in case we need them – he may very well come himself. Would it be possible for you to come? I have no idea what is going to happen – maybe nothing. But I feel it would be a help if you could be there. And if there is any need for police action I’m sure it would be a comfort to Miss Partridge to see you with the police party.’
‘I’m off duty tonight, sir, but I’ll gladly be there if you want me. What time would it be?’
‘Well, I don’t think the boat can get in before ten. Could I pick you up about half-past nine?’
‘That would be all right. But I feel this is slightly personal, between Miss Harriet and me, and you, sir, of course. I don’t want to go to the station, because I’m off duty, and there might be questions about what I was doing. Could you pick me up from my house?’
‘Gladly, if you’ll tell me where it is.’
‘We pass it on the way into Camelford – it’s 2, Gleneagles Terrace. We’ll be there in a minute or two, and I’ll show you.’
*
At the police station Piet made a brief report to the Inspector, explaining that Miss Partridge had not been able to help much, and that he was going to ask the Metropolitan Police to see if they could get hold of her brother. He didn’t want to ring Sir John Carfax from the police station, but he did ring the superintendent at Wadebridge. The inspector politely left him alone to do his telephoning, and it could be assumed that he was asking the superintendent to get in touch with the Yard. What in fact he said was that it now seemed imperative to meet the schooner at Port Gaverne, and that he did feel the need of reinforcements.
‘That’s all right, my boy,’ Superintendent Evans said. ‘On second thought I feel that four men, plus you and me, will be enough. I’ve got the chaps standing by. What time do you want us, and where shall we meet?’
‘I want to watch the quay, and I don’t want our party to be seen. You know the place much better than I do – what do you suggest?’
‘Well, the cliff road winds down past the village end of the quay, and then goes on to Port Isaac. There’s no cover at the village end, but you can leave the road on foot at the last hairpin bend before it gets to the village and walk down to a cliff path that leads out to a headland. There are plenty of rocks between the end of the quay and the headland – suppose we meet behind the first big rock, at, say, ten o’clock? The schooner can’t possibly get in before then.’
‘That seems fine.’
‘Right, I’ll be there with my party. I’ve decided to have the men in uniform. I shall leave our car a bit outside the village and we’ll go on foot, starting off singly at intervals of a minute or two, so that people don’t notice there’s a body of police around. You can park in the little parking place near the end of the quay – often there’s no room there, but at that time of night it ought to be all right.’
‘I’ll manage. See you at ten tonight, then, and thanks again for all you’ve done. By the way, I’ve not told the local inspector about our arrangements for tonight.’
‘Probably wise. If there are any hard feelings, I’ll smooth them over later.’
Piet thanked the inspector for Sergeant Trevithick’s help and said he felt he’d better be getting back to Wadebridge. Safely out of Camelford he found a call-box and made two calls. The first was to Sir John Carfax, to whom he explained his plans for that night, and to whom he also gave Stephen Partridge’s address and telephone number, asking that an officer should try to get hold of him. His next call was to Inspector Lovell’s home. He had no idea whether the inspector would be on or off duty, but he was lucky and Lovell himself answered the phone. ‘This is your friend Bill,’ Piet said. ‘Can anyone overhear what you say on the phone?’
‘No, sir, my wife’s out, and I’m alone in the house. I’m thankful to hear from you. I’ve been finding things hellish here, and we don’t seem to have made any progress in anything. Where are you speaking from?’
‘Cornwall. We may have made a bit of progress here, and with luck I may be able to explain more tomorrow. There are two important things I want you to do for me, if possible without anyone knowing about them. First, you’ll remember that we found some fingerprints on the pram, and I asked you to check with Records to see if they belonged to any of our own people who might have made them in examining the pram. You reported that they didn’t. What I want you to find out is whether any of our own staff prints are missing from Records.’
‘That won’t be easy, sir, if I can’t do it officially. But I play bowls with one of the sergeants there, and it’s just possible that he could help me. I’ll be as tactful as I can, but if I don’t get anywhere with him, I think I’ll have to leave it.’
‘Well, do your best – I know you’ll do that in any case, and I shall understand if you can’t manage it. The next thing is, what size of shoes does Inspector Donaldson wear?’
‘You don’t half ask awkward questions, sir.’
‘I know, and I’m sorry. But you’re a good detective, and I’ve every confidence in you.’
‘More than I have in myself. If I do find out the things you want, how do I get the information to you?’
‘You don’t. Keep it under your hat until I get in touch with you again. Now I’m running out of coins for this damned call-box. Good luck.’
‘Good luck to you, sir.’
*
It was time to call on Margaret Claridge; more than time, for it was nearer six than Piet’s promised call at around five. But it had been a fairly casual arrangement, and Piet hoped that she wouldn’t be upset. She was. He found her waiting for him with Victoria in her arms, at the top of the track to Pendenna cottages.
‘Thank God you’ve come. I’m so worried,’ she said.
‘That child must be a weight for you. Will she let me take her?’ Piet asked.
‘I expect so, she’s normally pretty docile. But it doesn’t matter. It’s downhill to the cottage, and I can carry her all right.’
‘Let me try, anyway.’ Piet held out his arms, and his heart winced as he felt the warm little body close against him. Victoria accepted the situation calmly, and even smiled at him. They walked back to the cottage, and Margaret took Victoria from him.
‘That was certainly a help. You really are a most considerate person,’ she said.
‘Well, what happened when you rang up?’
‘There wasn’t any reply. And I know I’ve got the right number, because it’s on the letter I had last week, and I wrote it down in my diary when he gave it to me at our interview. I’ve rung at intervals throughout the afternoon – I must have tried at least six times – but always the same, no answer. And it isn’t out of order, or the call-box out of order, because you get the ringing tone all right.’
The news did not surprise Piet, but he had to show concern for the unhappy woman whose hopes of a job had been so brutally shattered. ‘Are you in a hurry for me to go?’ he asked.
‘I’m thankful to have somebody to talk to, but I feel guilty about taking up so much of your time.’
‘You mustn’t think that. I’m a free agent – it was I who suggested coming back.’
‘Would you by any chance like a late tea, a sort of high tea or early supper? I generally get myself something to eat around now, so that I can get on with whatever work I’m doing after I’ve put Victoria to bed.’
‘I’d like it very much.’
‘Oh, that is nice! I’ve got some eggs, and some sausages. Would that be all right, with some toast?’
‘Splendid. Can I talk while you’re cooking?’
‘Of course.’
She put Victoria in a rather battered playpen – ‘Got it at a jumble sale, and it’s frightfully useful,’ she said. Then she went through into the kitchen, and Piet followed her. ‘We cook by bottled gas – the stove was put in by the Partridges,’ she explained. While she collected eggs, sausages and a loaf of bread, Piet asked, ‘Are there just the two sisters, or is there any other family?’
‘There’s a brother, I believe, but I’ve never met him. I know Harriet fairly well now because of living down here, but although it was Jane who put me on to the cottage I don’t really know her all that well. My husband was a journalist of sorts, and we used to get invited to parties. I met Jane first at a rather literary party – I think she worked, or had worked, for some publisher, and as I told you she knew my husband a bit. I kept running across her the way you do in London, but it was all pretty casual, and I never went to her flat. She knew about my husband going off, and of course she knew about Victoria because I was very visibly pregnant. Jane came to see me in hospital – out of sheer niceness, I think. And then she met me one day when I was out shopping with Victoria in her pram, and asked how I was getting on. When I told her about the rotten room which was all I could get she mentioned Pendenna and said that she’d talk to her sister about me. She told me to wait about a week while she sorted out things with her sister, and then to write to Harriet at Pendenna House. I did. Harriet wrote back a very nice letter saying I could have the cottage, so I came down with Victoria. I think Jane must have told Harriet that I was very hard up – in fact I know she did, because Harriet told me about it when I got to know her better. Anyway, when Victoria and I came down Harriet met us at Exeter, and brought us here in her own car. It was wonderfully decent of her – but she’s been like that all along.’
‘And you never met the brother?’
‘No. Harriet doesn’t talk about him – I don’t know if there are any strained relations, or anything like that.’
‘I don’t think you ever told me where you went for your interview in London.’
‘It didn’t seem to matter. It was in St John’s Wood, in a nice flat in what had been a big house in Vespasian Avenue.’
‘Funny that you got no answer when you rang today, especially as you’d been asked to phone. What was the man like – Mr Gellton, I think you said – when you met him?’
‘Nice. Dark-haired, rather intense, as I suppose a good many writers are. Certainly a lot of my husband’s writing friends often seemed rather tensed up, but looking back I think they were probably a fairly odd lot. Mr Gellton was rather younger than I’d have expected a successful author to be, but he may have been older than he looked.’
‘He showed you some of his books, I suppose?’
‘Yes – all of them, I think, or all the main ones. There were eight of them in a row on a bookshelf.’
‘And he gave you the typescript to take home?’
‘Yes. Books look different in print, somehow. The typescript doesn’t seem as good as the printed books, though it’s got a number of incidents I could turn into pictures. I was going to take your advice about offering to send him samples, and I thought I’d make a start this evening. Now I don’t know what to do. I think I’d decided to take the rest of your advice about not leaving here and going back to London, but I was hoping and hoping that he’d agree to my doing work for him from here. It wouldn’t be difficult for him to send down typescripts, or for me to send back sketches. And if he wanted to talk about illustrations I could always go to see him in London. With the money I should be getting I could afford to go to London once a month or so, and I could afford to make proper arrangements for Victoria. With no reply to my phone calls, I don’t know where I am.’
‘I think you should regard the whole suggestion as finished. It may have been genuine enough, but there’s something rather funny about it all. It looks to me as if the man got in touch with you – perhaps on Jane’s recommendation – in a sudden fit of enthusiasm, and then either decided that he couldn’t pay you what he’d promised, or found somebody else to do the job and funked talking to you on the phone. I shall be back in London next week and I can find out about the standing of Gellton for you – as I said, I know a number of illustrators. Or you could ask Jane next time you see her. Meanwhile, I should try to forget the whole business. I can probably help you to get some calendar work, so that’s an alternative to think about.’
