Death at Rottingdean (5 page)

“And you, too, Sheridan,” the man said. He was short and slender, with gold-rimmed eyeglasses perched on a firm nose, under bristling black brows, over a mustache as black as a bootbrush. He was rather dark-skinned, as if he had a touch of Indian blood. He smiled. “Pardon, please. I understand that you are now to be addressed as Lord Somersworth.”

Charles grinned. “Charles will do nicely, thank you, Rud. And I have decided to retain my family name, which has served me quite well for my lifetime.”

“You are not changed by your elevation, then,” Kipling said, returning the grin. “Uncle Ned told me you'd be down, and is sorry he is detained in London. I trust you are well settled. Seabrooke House, is that where you are?”

“Yes, and it's quite comfortable. How many years has it been since Lahore, Rud? Ten?”

“Twelve, I make it,” Kipling replied. “Mian Mir in '85, where the Fusiliers were stationed. I was turning out articles on army life, and you were—”

“Tying up the loose ends of my military career,” Charles said. He turned to Kate. “Kate, I should like you to meet Mr. Rudyard Kipling. Rud, my wife, Kathryn.”

“Lady Sheridan,” Kipling said, and bowed.

“Kate, please,” she said happily. It wasn't every day that she was privileged to meet an author as famous as Mr. Kipling, and as highly respected. Everyone who had read
Recessional
was loud in its praise, although she much preferred the stories. “I do so admire your work, Mr. Kipling. Of your stories, ‘The Phantom Rickshaw' is my favorite.” She paused, then quoted, in a low voice, “ ‘It is an awful thing to go down quick among the dead with scarcely one half of your life completed. It is a thousand times more awful to wait as I do in your midst, for I know not what unimaginable terror. Pity me, at least on the score of my delusion, for I know you will never believe what I have written here. Yet as surely as ever a man was done to death by the Powers of Darkness, I am that man.' ”

“Good heavens,” Kipling said, startled. “You have it by heart. How extraordinary.”

“My wife is a writer, as well,” Charles said, and Kate felt herself going red.

“Hardly ‘as well.' ” she said quickly. “No one in the entire world writes as well as Mr. Kipling.”

Kipling threw back his head and laughed uproariously. “Clever,” he said. “Very clever, Kate. But you must call me Rud, or Ruddy, for I see that we are going to become friends very quickly. Pardon me, but what sort of writer are you?”

“A pseudonymous writer,” Kate replied. “It would hardly be to Charles's advantage for his opponents in Parliament to know what his wife does for amusement.”

“She writes murder stories,” Charles said, sotto voce.

“Charles!” Kate exclaimed. But it was true. Before she came to England, she had earned her living writing penny dreadfuls for the American popular press. Now, she wrote what she liked to think of as “suspenseful fiction,” for the British press, with rather more psychological interest than blood and violence.

“Murder stories!” Kipling said. “Well, well. You must. allow me to read one or two of them.”

“Perhaps you have,” Charles replied. “Her pen name is Beryl Bardwell.”

“Charles!”
Kate exclaimed again, more loudly. “I thought we agreed—”

But Kipling was shaking his head. “Beryl Bardwell,” he said with a chuckle. “I have read your stories in
Black-well's
and enjoyed every one—and the Aunt, too! Aunt Georgie—Lady Bume-Jones—will be pleased beyond words to know that you are here, and will absolutely insist on meeting you. You really must come up to The Elms. This evening, shall we say? We are not in a situation to invite guests to dinner, but I can at least promise dessert.”

Kate could feel her face reddening once again. Although her stories had a wide readership, she was not accustomed to hearing them admired, and wondered fleetingly if Kipling was having fun at her expense. “Oh, but I—” she began.

“I shall not take no for an answer,” Kipling said. “Our family has recently been joined by a new young person by the name of John. He has rather a loud voice and vehement manner, but we would be quite pleased to introduce him to you, if you have no objection to infants. In any event, there is nothing else to do in Rottingdean but count your blessings and admire the children. Dessert at The Elms offers about as much temptation as you will find anywhere in the village.” He paused, looking reflective. “Although there is this body on the beach. And speaking of mysteries, I have just been told something in which you might have a professional—”

There was a clamor from below, and Kate turned to see that the trio on the beach was on the point of being joined by a fourth, a stout, red-faced constable dressed in a blue serge uniform and a tall helmet. He was hurrying down the beach, waving his arms and hailing them angrily.

“What is he saying?” Kate asked.

“I imagine,” Charles replied, “that he is telling them to leave the body alone until he is there to see to the matter. There might be clues.”

Kipling gave Charles a swift glance. “Clues? What are you thinking?”

“I understood the fisherman to say that the body is that of the coast guard from Black Rock,” Charles said. “Since he was an official of the Crown, the constable will want to make sure that he died by drowning, and not from some other cause.”

Kate frowned, wondering what Charles had in mind. “What do coast guards do?” she asked, curious.

“They are supposed to guard against smuggling,” Charles said, “although I doubt that there are many smugglers hereabouts. It has been a long time since the repeal of the excise.”

“Perhaps,” Kipling said, looking thoughtful. “But the traditions of smuggling die hard. There are tunnels, you see, and ghosts. At least, there is one ghost. He lives in our cellar.”

“A ghost
^!
” Kate exclaimed.

Kipling smiled. “Of course. Smugglers are not the sort to lie quietly in the grave. Do come this evening and I shall see if we can entice our ghost to manifest himself. And the boy has told me a story about—”

Kate had been watching the scene on the beach, and now she turned to Charles, plucking at his sleeve. “Charles,” she said, “I think you should offer your services to the constable.” She glanced at Kipling with mischievous intent. “Charles is a photographer, you see, Rud—a very skilled photographer. His camera has helped to solve several important crimes.”

“Is that a fact?” Kipling inquired, looking interested.

“Yes,” Kate said with exaggerated emphasis. “And it is a quite well-known fact that he is remarkably skilled at unraveling mysteries, and has been the means of bringing several killers to justice.” She lifted her chin, glad to be even with her husband for revealing her secret identity. “In this case, Charles, it might be useful to photograph the dead man. There might be clues to his demise. But you'd best hurry, because it appears that the constable is about to—”

“Kate,” Charles said gently, “don't you think you're overdoing it, my dear? The constable has his own methods of criminal inquiry. He would surely resent the intrusion of someone else, especially someone in an unofficial capacity.”

“No, no, I quite agree with your wife, Sheridan,” Kipling said briskly. “It would be a pity to waste your investigative skills.” He turned toward the stairs. “Constable Woodhouse may be a trifle hardheaded, but I'm sure he'll be glad of your services. Come, I'll introduce you and suggest that proceedings be delayed while you send for your camera. And while we're at it, perhaps you should like to hear something else of interest concerning this body.”

“Something else?” Charles inquired, as he went down the stairs behind Kipling.

“What is it?” Kate asked, lifting up her skirts to hurry down the stairs behind the two men.

“The boy will tell you,” Kipling said, over his shoulder. “He's a fair storyteller.”

For years they defied the law and ... plied their trade with so much caution that no real evidence could be brought against them. No doubt this was in a measure owing to the connivance of the inhabitants.

—A. CECIL PIPER,
Alfriston: A History

 

 

 

A
melia gave a last pat to Lady Sheridan's upswept hair and stood back from the mirrored dressing table at which her mistress was seated. “There,” she said, with satisfaction. “What d'ye think, my lady?”

“You have done it up quite beautifully, Amelia,” Lady Sheridan said, turning to inspect the twist of her back hair with a hand mirror. “As you always do.”

Amelia replaced the silver brush and comb in the velvet-lined travel case. “ ‘Tisn't a hard job.” She gave her mistress an admiring glance. “You've beautiful hair, mum. So thick and shiny.”

“Thank you,” Lady Sheridan said, and smiled as she stood and shook out the skirts of her green dress. “Flattery has earned you the evening off, my dear. It may be late, and I shan't be needing you when we return from the Kiplings.” She opened her glove case and began to sort through her gloves. “How do you find your room? Are you and Lawrence quite comfortable?”

“Oh yes, mum,” Amelia said earnestly, “although nothing is as nice as our cottage at Bishop's Keep.” In Amelia's view, her own rose-covered gatehouse cottage at Lady Sheridan's home was the most beautiful spot in all of England. But this was her first visit to the south coast, and she would have been pleased to sleep in a mouse hole, as long as it was in sight of the sea. “And Mrs. Portney seems a pleasant sort,” she added tentatively.

Lady Sheridan, inspecting a button on her gloves, glanced up. “Only ‘seems'?” she asked, with a lift of her eyebrow.

Amelia hesitated before she answered. Mrs. Portney was the cook-housekeeper who came with the house Lord and Lady Sheridan had taken for their holiday—Seabrooke House, it was called—a narrow, two-story house that fronted on the High Street near St. Aubyn's School, with a wrought-iron veranda and a generous back garden and roses tumbling everywhere. It was quite a lovely house and Mrs. Portney managed it adequately, as far as Amelia could tell, although their coming seemed to have taken the woman by surprise, for she did not have the beds aired nor a food supply laid in. And there was the matter of the mysterious noises belowstairs last night. If Amelia could believe her ears, the narrow-faced, long-nosed Mrs. Portney had been entertaining a male visitor in the vicinity of the wine cellar—more than one visitor, perhaps, from the energetic thumping and bumping and the sound, quite late in the night, of glass breaking. But Amelia did not like to make accusations, so she only smiled and gave a little shrug.

As she often did, Lady Sheridan seemed to understand without being told. She smiled. “I'm sure we must all be willing to put up with a bit of unpleasantness now and then, in order to make the most of our holiday.” She put a finger under Amelia's chin and raised it, studying her face with a frown. “But I am a trifle concerned about you, my dear. You are more pale than I like. Are you not sleeping? Are you well?”

Amelia turned her head aside. It wasn't that she wasn't well, for she was
very
well, although occasionally a bit nauseous in the mornings. In fact, she was pregnant with her first child, and so pleased for herself and Lawrence that she hardly knew how to conceal her delight. But she had hidden her condition from her ladyship for the few weeks she had known of it, because of what poor Lady Sheridan had suffered this last spring and summer.

It was a tragedy to lose a child, certainly, although women were always losing their first child and then going on to have a houseful. But to forever lose all hope of having a child—
that
was a calamity of such enormous proportions that the thought of it made Amelia turn cold with fear. She did not know how her ladyship could bear it—and indeed, it must have been very hard, for she had come upon her ladyship weeping bitterly many a time in the past months. Lady Sheridan had been so deathly ill that it was feared she might be lost as well as the babe, and it was all on account of coming to London, where there were such dirty fogs and choking air and terrible slums where ladies who went to do good works could catch the measles.

Now, however, her ladyship was smiling. “You're going to have a baby,” she said quietly. “Is that it, my dear?”

“In six months' time,” Amelia said, and was swept into her employer's warm embrace.

“Oh, Amelia!” Lady Sheridan cried tearfully, holding her close, “I am so
delighted
for you!”

“Thank ye, my lady,” Amelia said, sniffing. “I've been wantin' t' tell ye, but I was afraid... that is...” And she felt her eyes fill up with tears and heard herself begin to sob, imagining the bitter pang her ladyship must feel at this news.

“There, there, Amelia,” her ladyship said comfortingly, patting her shoulder. “Having a baby is nothing to cry over. And if your tears are for me, they truly are not necessary, my dear. I will take every bit as much pleasure in your child as I would in my own, and it will help me forget my own pain.” She took a handkerchief from the dressing table and dabbed at Amelia's eyes. “There. We shall have no more weeping.”

“Thank ye, mum,” Amelia whispered, almost overcome.

“And you must promise me that you will take good care of yourself,” her ladyship added sternly. “No carrying buckets of bath water up and down the stairs. If Lawrence isn't available, we shall see if Mrs. Portney can't find a strong boy for that job.” She turned, beaming, as Lord Sheridan opened the door and came into the bedroom. “Charles, Charles, I have just heard the most blessed news!”