Chapter One
One day I would return home after successfully solving a case and have time to rest before being thrust into the midst of another. Unfortunately, the second Monday in November 1936 was not to be that day.
I boarded the nine-thirty train from London Waterloo to Linhay just as the driving rain momentarily turned to sleet and then into hailstones the size of marbles. I could even hear them thundering on the station's glass roof from inside the first-class carriage. It must have been quite deafening to those waiting on the platform.
While it was bitterly cold outside, thankfully the carriage was blissfully warm, and I settled in just as the whistle sounded and a jerk of the wheels on the track signalled our departure. Glancing out of the window, I could see the hailstones had reverted to sleet, but it was the thick sort that not only penetrated clothing but also the very marrow in your bones, leaving you shivering and without hope of ever feeling warm again. It also signified imminent snow. I hoped that would wait until I was safely home. I was so looking forward to being back at The Yellow Cottage. It seemed such a long time since I had been there.
Approximately a quarter of an hour into the journey, the carriage door opened and Hubert, the ticket collector, entered. We'd got to know one another a little due to my frequent trips to the city. He was in his late thirties with a joyful countenance and the pale, freckled skin that often accompanies red hair. He also had a slight limp due to an injury sustained in the Great War. Although today it was more pronounced than usual, no doubt because of the length of time he'd been standing on the platform at Waterloo prior to our departure. It was always worse in inclement weather, he'd informed me once.
“Good morning, Miss Bridges. And how are you today?” he asked, taking my ticket. I saw the gentleman at the far end of the carriage lower his newspaper and observe us briefly, before raising it and once again obscuring his face. But not before I'd noticed the bushiest grey eyebrows I'd ever seen. They reminded me of the Becher's Brook hedge jump at Aintree Racecourse.
“Very well, Hubert, thank you. I'm looking forward to getting home. I've been away far longer than I expected.”
I had been staying with my brother and his wife in London, when I'd chanced upon an abandoned baby in Kensington Palace Gardens. That, and the discovery of a body the following day, had been the catalyst for a case which had led me to secret parts of the capital I'd never known existed, and introduced me to sordid elements of the Secret Intelligence Service I had no wish to revisit. My Aunt Margaret had been full of surprises on that case. Baxter, my aunt and I had all been awarded the King's Medal for services to the Crown, although it had all been done in secret. We were taken to the palace in darkness and met the king, then dutifully returned home with instructions never to breathe a word of it to anyone.
I took back my ticket and continued: “I now plan to hibernate for a while, like all sensible creatures when faced with this sort of weather. How are you faring, Hubert?”
“I'm as right as a bobbin, thank you for asking. Now, we'll be in Hoving in half an hour and Linhay a quarter of an hour after that. In the meantime, would you like a cup of tea?”
I shook my head. “Thank you, no. I'll have one when I get home.”
He nodded, and I watched him limp his way down the aisle to the other passengers. The woman on the right-hand side was fast asleep but had left her ticket on the table. The man with the eyebrows remained engrossed in his newspaper as he lifted his ticket, but made no effort to speak with Hubert, who passed me on the return journey a minute later and doffed his cap politely before leaving the carriage.
The thick sleet continued its onslaught on the landscape as we made our way through open countryside, and my thoughts turned toward my garden. Now in its dormant period, it would still have surprises in store thanks to Tom's hard work, with splashes of colour outside my windows from the pots he'd filled with pansies and the borders of winter-flowering heather. He'd also planted hellebores, and I was hoping to see a display of Christmas roses this year.
Hoving was the last station on the mainland before the track continued over the water to Linhay Island. The northern track, which was accessed from the opposite side of the town from the southern, headed to London and, except at the height of summer or if the island was having an event like the May Day Fête, was always far busier than the one I was currently on. So as we pulled into the station, I was surprised to observe a small crowd of people gathered at one end of the platform. Something had happened.
As we drew to a standstill, I could see more clearly and realised there was a figure lying on the ground. Next to her was a pile of luggage, including a red hat box and an umbrella, and tied to the handle of the little suitcase was a small tan-and-white fox terrier, whining and barking in distress as he tried in vain to reach what was obviously his mistress.
I was just wondering if I should get involved when the appearance of Phantom next to the dog took the decision out of my hands. I sighed and rose to get my suitcase. Tea in front of the fire at home would have to wait. I obviously had another job to do.
***
The bitter cold of the open-air platform was a shock after the warmth of the carriage, and almost seared my lungs. I pulled my fur collar tighter and my hat lower as I made my way over to the milling crowd. I turned as a voice called my name.
“Can I help at all, Miss Bridges?” It was Hubert.
“Thank you, Hubert, indeed you can. If you'd be so kind as to move my case to the office and have someone take care of these people, I'd be grateful. I may need to speak with them shortly and don't want them all to disappear.”
“Of course, miss. A job for London, you think, then?”
“It's too early to say. But if there's one thing I have learned since becoming a consultant detective with Scotland Yard, Hubert, it's always better to err on the side of caution. Much better to assume an unlawful act from the outset and be proved wrong than the other way around.”
I'd become rather adept at spouting innocuous statements when Phantom was on the scene. I could hardly explain that the necessity of my getting involved was, in fact, governed by the spirit of a cat, whom I'd inherited when I bought my home.
I left Hubert, and with several “excuse mes” gently pushed my way through to the front of the onlookers. The body of the woman was now almost fully covered in a tarpaulin belonging to the railway. Just her left hand, bare of any form of jewellery, was visible, and only then momentarily as an attending gentleman tucked it away out of sight. She'd obviously been a large woman in life.
There was a scent, faint but clinging. It was sharp and chemical, like something one might find in a medicine cabinet or a bottle of cheap perfume. Not floral, and certainly not pleasant.
“Oh dear. What happened?” I asked the man who had taken charge. He was tall and slim, in a dark-grey overcoat and woollen scarf, the latter in modest dove-grey herringbone with a single narrow stripe of burgundy running through. He had a thick black beard and moustache, both flecked with grey, which obscured much of his face, and dark eyes behind a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles. It was difficult to gauge their colour due to the shadow cast from his wide-brimmed hat.
“A sudden heart attack, I would say. She just collapsed. There was nothing I could do, I'm afraid.”
“Are you a doctor?” I asked him.
“I am. And you are …?”
“Miss Bridges. I'm with Scotland Yard. How old would you say the deceased was, Doctor …?”
“Broadbent. Samuel Broadbent. Middle fifties, I would say. Why?”
“Not very old then. If you don't mind, I think it would be best if she were taken to the police pathologist, Mortimer Smythe. Just so we can rule out foul play.”
There was a brief silence while he contemplated my request.
“Well, if you insist,” he said eventually. “But I stand by my diagnosis. She was carrying rather a lot of extra weight, which most certainly would have put a strain on her heart. However, I've already called for an ambulance. Ah, here they are now.”
I looked up to find two ambulance men entering the platform through the small wicket gate, a stretcher at the ready. “I'll tell them to go to Scotland Yard,” I said.
“Well, I'm not at all sure it's necessary, but I can see you won't be swayed otherwise. I'll therefore accompany her. I was on my way to St. Bart's anyway, so it's not out of my way.”
“That's decent of you, Doctor Broadbent. I'll contact Doctor Smythe and tell him to expect you. Now, I suppose this poor dog and the luggage belonged to the deceased?”
The doctor gave an eloquent shrug before answering. “I would assume so. It's where she was standing before she collapsed, and the dog obviously knows her. What do you propose to do with him?”
“I shall take him home and look after him until we can find her next of kin. Have you ascertained who she is yet?”
“I was just about to check her bag when you arrived. But I'll leave that with you now, and get on my way.”
“Thank you, Doctor Broadbent, you've been very helpful.”
As the doctor walked away, I retrieved the woman's handbag and made my way over to the dog. He'd stopped barking now, but was whimpering as he watched his mistress being carried off. I untied his lead from the suitcase and began to gently stroke his head, talking to him softly, and he calmed down. Phantom had never left his side, and when he got up to walk to the office, the dog followed him.
I asked Hubert – who passed me on his way back to the train, having escorted the witnesses to the waiting room – to find someone who could bring the luggage into the office. I needed to telephone Baxter.
***
While I had been speaking with Doctor Broadbent, Hubert had kindly paved the way for me with the stationmaster, so I was expected. A cup of tea for me, and a makeshift bed with a bowl of water for the dog – whose name, I discovered from a tag on his collar, was Castor – were waiting by the fire in his small lounge, along with a telephone. I quickly contacted the police station in Hoving and asked them to send a constable immediately to take the witness statements. My second call was to Popkin, my housekeeper, telling her of my delay. Then I telephoned Baxter at the Yard.
Baxter gave an audible sigh once I told him my reason for calling. “I thought you were intending to have some time off, Miss Bridges?”
“You and me both, Baxter.”
“And you're sure there's more to this than a simple heart attack?”
I glanced down at Phantom, who was comforting Castor in a way only the two of them could understand. The fact that my cat was here meant this incident was suspicious in some way, but I couldn't explain that to my colleague.
“Not completely, Baxter, no. But I do feel it needs to be looked into further.”
“All right, Miss Bridges, I'll leave a note on Mortimer's desk telling him to expect the body. He's in court today, so won't be able to do anything until tomorrow at the earliest. How far have you got down there?”
“Just one moment, Baxter, the constable has arrived.”
I quickly went over to the young policeman and explained what had happened and what I wanted him to do: “The witnesses are currently in the waiting room, but they've been there for a while, and I expect they want to be about their business. Especially in this weather. If you could take their details and statements, then bring it all to my home, The Yellow Cottage on Linhay, please. But if there is anything unusual or highly relevant, please let me know immediately.”
The constable nodded, gave me an unexpected and unnecessary salute and left. I returned to the telephone and gave Baxter the update.
“I've also got in my possession the deceased's handbag and other belongings, which comprised several suitcases, a red hat box, an umbrella and her dog. I'll get a taxi and take them all home with me until we can find out who her next of kin is. If you give me a moment, I'll check her handbag for identification.” I rummaged in the good-quality leather handbag and found her details on a driving licence. “Baxter, her name is Claryssa Winterbrook, with an address of Gifford House on the Isle of Wight.”
“Right. I'll telephone the house from here, then I'll come to you. I see a boat journey in our future, Miss Bridges, so you may not even have to unpack.”
“As much as I hate the idea of being on a stormy sea in the dead of winter, I fear you may be right, Baxter.”
***
The taxi driver was very accommodating and more than happy for the dog to sit in the footwell. For his part, Castor jumped into the car without a second thought; he was obviously used to this mode of transport. But he sat against my legs for the brief journey, and I could feel him trembling. I rested my hand on his neck and stroked an ear with my thumb, which calmed him down. I was hoping my gardener, Tom, could work his magic with the poor creature. Tom had a gift with both animals and plants, and owned a rumbustious dog of his own, a Jack Russell Terrier named Digger. Once he got to know them, I was sure Castor would begin to feel safe and not as bewildered as he obviously felt now.
As soon as my driver pulled up outside the cottage, Tom was on hand to take in the luggage while Popkin took charge of Castor.
“Oh, Miss Bridges, what an awful thing to happen. I couldn't believe it when you told me on the telephone. Does it warrant an investigation?”
“Yes, I believe it does, Popkin,” I replied, hanging up my coat and hat and changing my boots for warm slippers.
“Well, if anyone can get to the bottom of the matter, it's you, miss. Now, where would you like me to put this poor mite? He's obviously not himself, is he? Mind you, it's not surprising considering what's happened to his mistress. They feel loss and grief similar to us, don't they? You've only got to look at the story of Greyfriars Bobby to know that.”
“I was rather hoping Tom and Digger could help. Take him down to the kitchen, would you, Popkin, and see if he'll settle there? He may need a trip to the garden first. If not, just let him settle where he feels most comfortable. If that's with me in the sitting room for the time being, then so be it. But make sure everyone monitors him. I'd hate for him to set off in search of his mistress. He'd end up in London. Or worse still, swimming the Solent.”
“Of course, Miss Bridges. I'll bring your lunch and a nice cup of tea shortly. Come along, Castor, I think there's some leftover chicken in the pantry.”
***
After a lunch of Mulligatawny soup and freshly baked bread, Popkin came to take the tray away. In her hand was a medium-sized burlap bag tied with twine.
“What's that, Popkin?”
“Tom's just found it, Miss Bridges. Apparently, after that nasty storm while you were in London, a couple of the foundation stones of the greenhouse got dislodged. He thinks there was an animal worrying it as there was some claw marks in the old pointing. Probably Digger if you ask me. He'd just gone to fix it and found a cavity behind. This was in there.”
“How very odd,” I said, taking the bag. It was heavier than I had expected. “I'll have a look shortly. How is Castor?”
“That boy Tom has the touch of an angel, Miss Bridges. I'm convinced of it. Digger and Castor were a little wary of one another to start with. Only to be expected when one dog invades another's territory, but their tails were wagging a bit and there was no growling. So, Tom goes over to Castor and talks to him and gains his trust right away. He then calls Digger over and introduces them. Well, after that they were best of friends and have been playing in the garden. Going berserk, they were. Fast asleep together by the range now.”
“Well, that's excellent news. Thank you, Popkin.”
Once she had left, I took the bag to my desk and snipped the twine. Inside was a neat parcel wrapped in several layers of waterproof wax paper. It was like a childhood game of pass the parcel as I removed them one by one. Finally, when there was none of my desk left to be seen under the pile of paper, I removed the last of the layers and found myself holding several thick notebooks tied together with a blue ribbon. I opened the first one and immediately recognised the hand of Mrs Rose, the elderly lady from whom I had purchased The Yellow Cottage.
I sat down with a thump as I turned the page and realised what the contents referred to. I had asked myself the same question over and over since I'd bought the cottage, but had never really expected an answer. Not while I was alive anyway, and certainly not one as comprehensive as this.
If you've followed my cases from the beginning, you'll know I inherited a black cat with the cottage. But he's not your normal feline; he's a spirit – whom I named Phantom for obvious reasons – and he's been instrumental in helping me to solve some tricky mysteries. He's also saved my life. But Phantom has always been the biggest mystery to me. Where had he come from? Now, thanks to Mrs Rose and her painstaking research, it seemed I had the answer and – perhaps unsurprisingly – like the cat himself, his story is remarkable.
I moved to an armchair and made myself comfortable just as Phantom walked through the outer wall to join me. He jumped onto the arm of my chair and pinned me with his green-eyed stare. He was solid for a change, and head-butted my hand as I lifted it. His fur was soft, and I could feel the reverberation of his purrs even though he was silent.
“Hello, dear cat,” I said. “Did you know I was reading your story? Did you help Tom find the diaries? It's obviously time for me to learn all about your origins, isn’t it?”
He gave me another look, then jumped down and threw himself on the rug in front of the fire, tail periodically twitching as he went to sleep. I smiled to myself. I didn't for one minute think the claw scratches marking the hiding place belonged to Digger, but I wouldn't get an answer from Phantom. Turning back to the notebook, I lost myself in his story.
I was so engrossed in the diaries when Baxter turned up a couple of hours later that, if it hadn't been for the joyful barks of two dogs playing in the garden, I would have forgotten I was in the midst of a case entirely.
***
Popkin showed Baxter in just as I was tidying up the last of the wax paper.
“Good afternoon, Miss Bridges. Sorry I'm a bit late. I called in at Hoving police station on my way through to pick up the witness statements. Saved the lad having to come all this way.”
“Thank you, Baxter. I'm sure he appreciated it, considering the dreadful weather. Have a seat. Popkin will bring tea shortly. Was there anything of note in the statements?”
“Nothing that jumped out. They all said the same thing on the whole.” He reached inside his jacket pocket and pulled out a neatly folded sheaf of papers. He straightened them, smoothing out the creases on his knee before beginning. “I've transferred the details to my notebook, but this is the main crux of the job.” He cleared his throat and started to read.
The woman was waiting on the platform with her luggage and dog when suddenly she collapsed. A man rushed forward and caught her just before she hit the ground. He said he was a doctor and proceeded to lay her on the floor, feeling for a pulse and doing professional things like doctors do. Then he shook his head and said it was too late. He asked a station porter to guard the body while he telephoned for an ambulance. Within moments the doctor returned, and the porter and him covered up the body. Then the train from London came in, and a woman from the train gets off and goes to talk to the doctor. The train guard asks us to go to the waiting room. A few minutes later, an ambulance arrives and the body is taken away. The doctor goes with it, and the woman from the train takes the dog to the office.
“Well, the woman from the train is obviously me. Is that all they had to say?”
“Apart from that she was a large lady in middle age, the only other thing said – and all the witnesses agree – was that it happened quickly.”
I nodded. “Yes, a heart attack is very sudden.”
“So you think it is natural causes now?”
I frowned and looked outside. Even though it was still sleeting heavily, I could hear the joyous barks of Digger and Castor as they chased one another around the lawns. If it hadn't been for Phantom's appearance, I wouldn't have got involved in the first place, but perhaps he was there simply to provide comfort for a dog that had lost his mistress … Also, I hadn't seen the woman's spirit, which is what normally happens when I have a suspicious death to investigate. Perhaps this time I had read too much into it and there wasn't a case after all. I turned back to my colleague, who was waiting patiently for a reply.
“Honestly, I don't know, Baxter. I'm still inclined to believe there's something unusual about the case, but at the moment I can't work out what. We'll know more when Mortimer has done the autopsy, I expect. Did you get hold of anyone at the victim's house?”
“I've called several times, but no one has answered. I find that a bit odd, myself. You'd have thought there would have been at least one person keeping an eye on the place while she was absent. A maid or a housekeeper at the very least. I think we need to go over there. Whether she died of natural causes or not, we need to tell someone what's happened.”
“I agree. Not to mention the fact we need to return her belongings. Although we need to have a look through them first. There may be another contact listed somewhere whom we can call.”
“I'll bring them in,” Baxter said, rising. Just as he opened the door, Popkin came into view carrying the tea tray. “Let me take that for you. Well now, that looks familiar.” He stared at the large coffee and walnut cake.
“As well it should, Mr Baxter. It's your wife's recipe and a jolly good one at that. What that lady doesn't know about cooking and baking isn't worth knowing. I can see her being a favourite to win ‘best cake’ at the May Day Fête for many years to come.”
“She's giving away all our secret family recipes, is she?” Baxter replied, smiling. “Well, it's only fair to share them, I suppose. I've been lucky enough to have them all to myself for years.”
During our last case, Baxter hadn't been himself at all. It was obvious there was something weighing on his mind. Eventually, when he'd confided in me that his wife wanted to move away from London and that it would probably be the end of his career at the Yard, I came up with what I thought was a perfect solution. My housekeeper intended to move into my staff accommodation, and consequently her house was in need of a tenant. At the same time, the special school on the island needed a cookery teacher. I mentioned all of this to Baxter over lunch, and he went home lighter in spirit to pass the message on to his wife. To cut a long story short, she applied for and got the job, and the couple took the tenancy at Popkin's old house. My housekeeper and Mrs Baxter had obviously become firm friends as a result.
Baxter put the tray on the table and went to get Claryssa Winterbrook's luggage from the hall. Meanwhile, I poured the tea and Popkin returned to the kitchen.
The cake was indeed excellent, and Baxter and I enjoyed two large pieces each, along with two cups of tea. Suitably fortified, we proceeded to examine the luggage. I started with the red hat box, but it was empty, so I set it aside and moved on to the green case.
Phantom had remained asleep on the rug in front of the fire since Baxter had arrived. Now he stood up and stretched, yawning widely and showing off his pointed white teeth. He stepped regally onto the hat box and sat down. He'd gone back to being transparent, and I could see the leg of my desk through his torso. Remaining perfectly still, he watched as Baxter and I opened a suitcase each and began carefully removing the contents.
Half an hour later, with everything examined and returned to its place, we were none the wiser. The suitcases’ contents comprised the various accoutrements a woman of middle age would pack for a short winter holiday – but nothing of use to us.
“Well, not much to shed any light, is there?” Baxter said. “I think the earlier we go across to the Isle of Wight, the better. Tomorrow, I was thinking, but if you don't want to accompany me I'm quite happy to go alone.”
It was on the tip of my tongue to take him up on his offer, but at that moment Phantom bounded up onto the arm of my chair and hissed at me, albeit silently.
“No, I'll come along too, Baxter.”
“In that case, if I may use your telephone, I'll call the ferry and a guest house I know over there, and see if we can get booked in. What do you think, one or two nights?”
“Hopefully one should be sufficient, but make it two just in case.”
“And what about the dog?”
“Oh, I'd much rather he stayed here. He's happy and has good company in the form of Tom and Digger, not to mention Popkin, who has taken a real shine to him. He'll be safer here, too. I've no idea what we'll find over there, and considering there's no answer on the telephone, there may be no one to take him at all.”
I've often wondered since then if further lives could have been saved if I'd only chosen to take Castor back to the Isle of Wight with us.
As Baxter left to make the arrangements, I looked wistfully at the desk drawer where I had deposited Mrs Rose's diaries. I'd have to wait to learn more of Phantom's miraculous story.
Chapter Two
On Tuesday morning, Baxter collected me from home and we drove to the ferry terminal at Portsmouth. He'd decided that the Portsmouth crossing was a better option than the ferry at Southampton, as apart from being closer, it left earlier and would give us more time to conclude our business on the island and return home. I can't say I was particularly looking forward to the trip. I had only been on a boat twice before, and both times were during the summer months, when the sky was clear, the water a gently undulating azure blue, and a mild breeze gave much-needed respite from the heat of the sun. The complete opposite of the lashing rain, periodic sleet and foreboding gunmetal-grey clouds we had for today's journey.
As we approached the terminal, my stomach flipped in response to the high waves, and I gasped.
“Not seasick, are you, Miss Bridges?”
“I have no idea, Baxter. I suppose we shall soon find out.”
“Waves always look larger at this level, Miss Bridges. Once we're aboard, you'll hardly feel the effects. It's a big boat, and the journey is barely an hour. But here's a tip for you; if you start to feel a little queasy, just concentrate on the horizon. It gives your brain a point of reference, allowing it to sense the motion of the vessel and your movement with it.”
Thankfully, Baxter was correct. Once we were seated in the small lounge with a pot of tea, the rise and fall of the craft was more than manageable, and I only had to concentrate on the horizon twice.
“Do we have transport when we get there, Baxter?” I asked after I had thanked the waitress and she had removed the remains of our victuals.
“I contacted the local station yesterday from your cottage. There's a constable, name of Barnaby, driving down to pick us up and take us to the Wilton guesthouse in Shanklin. It's on the south side and a bit away from Claryssa Winterbrook's house, but from what I remember it's a nice place.”
“Oh, you've stayed there before then, Baxter?”
“Just the once, and a while ago now, but it has a good reputation. Nothing too fancy, but clean and well run. I've left a message for Mortimer to telephone us there when he has the autopsy results.”
“Well, hopefully we'll have more news soon. Have you given the local police our reason for coming?”
Baxter shook his head. “Not as yet. Just said that we're following up on a case. I thought it best to get the lie of the land before making any announcements.”
“Good thinking, Baxter. I agree with you. Oh, it looks as though we're nearly there.”
As the island came more clearly into sight, I heard the engines change as they slowed down to make our approach, and a quarter of an hour later we disembarked.
***
Baxter had engaged the services of Barnaby as our driver for the duration of our stay, and as we carefully walked to the end of the wooden jetty, he came to greet us.
“Good morning sir, miss. I hope you had a good crossing.”
We answered in the affirmative, and while Baxter and Barnaby loaded the luggage I made myself comfortable in the back of the motor car. With Claryssa Winterbrook's suitcases and our own, there was rather a lot of luggage, so two cases were stowed on the empty seat beside me. A couple of minutes later, we were on our way.
“You timed the crossing well,” Barnaby informed us. “The forecast is dreadful for the next few days. I doubt you'd have made it otherwise.”
“What about our return, Barnaby? You don't think it will be cancelled, do you?” I asked.
“Well, miss, the forecasters have been known to get it wrong on occasion, but I'd be prepared for the long haul if I were you.”
Oh dear. I'd packed only enough clothing for two days. Well, there was nothing I could do about it now. I'd just have to carry on and hope things sorted themselves out. They usually did.
During our journey, Barnaby gave us some history of the island. I knew, of course, that it housed the Osborne Estate, the magnificent holiday residence of Queen Victoria and Prince Albert. It was built as a much-needed escape from the rigours of court life, and they'd spent many happy times there. After Victoria's death, her son and successor, Edward VII, didn't need the house, and with no other member of the royal family keen to take it on, the estate was given to the nation. It had been a college for naval cadets for a good many years, but now, according to what I understood from the newspapers, it was given over to short-term tenancies. Sadly, I was not to be afforded even a glimpse of the palatial house, as it was further north than where we had landed.
The journey to the guest house took nearly three-quarters of an hour, and as we drew closer the weather gradually became worse – so much so that I could barely make out the thatched cottages of Shanklin old village as we drove through. We slowed almost to a crawl as visibility was severely hampered by the driving rain.
Eventually, Barnaby pulled up outside the front door of the quaint two-storey Victorian house and breathed a sigh of relief.
“Well, that was a journey and a half, wasn't it? Looks like the weather forecast was right. But at least you're here in one piece. Right, I'll just let Ma Deakin know you're here, then I'll come back for the luggage.”
Barnaby jumped out of the motor car, and Baxter and I followed suit. We were greeted in the entrance hall by a large, harried-looking woman with grey hair coming loose from a bun. Ma Deakin, I presumed. She bobbed a quick curtsy.
“Welcome to the Wilton. I'm Mrs Deakin, the proprietor. Your rooms are ready, and I've had a fire lit in each. My daughter Mary will show you up.”
With Baxter and Barnaby bringing up the rear with the luggage, I followed Mary up the stairs and along a dimly lit corridor to the back of the house. She showed me to a basic, but clean and quite spacious, room with views of the raging sea. Under normal circumstances, I should have been able to see the mainland from where I stood, but at that moment I could hardly make out the beach I was assured was at the end of the garden. If the weather continued as it was, goodness knew how long we'd have to stay.
The cat had obviously got Mary's tongue, as she never spoke a word on the way to the room and left just as silently. And talking of cats … I discovered Phantom lounging on the bed when I entered. How he knew which room was to be mine before I knew it myself was another question I probably would never find the answer to. But such was the enigma of my spirit companion.
I had just finished unpacking my belongings and stowing Claryssa Winterbrook's luggage, which Barnaby had kindly brought up, in the base of the wardrobe when there was a tap at the door.
Mary stood on the threshold. “Sorry to bother you, miss, but there is a telephone call for you. From London.”
She made the name of our capital city sound like the most exotic location imaginable, and I realised she had probably never visited. In fact, she probably had never left the island at all.
“Thank you, Mary. Lead the way.”
The telephone was on the reception desk, so there was not much in the way of privacy. I waited until Mary had left and picked up the receiver.
“Hello?”
“Is that you, Miss Bridges? It's Mortimer here.”
“Yes, I thought it must be you calling. Do you have any news?”
“News? I was rather hoping you'd have some for me, my dear.”
“Whatever do you mean, Mortimer? Have you managed to do the post-mortem?”
“Not the one you're expecting, no. I can't very well do a post-mortem with no body, Miss Bridges. It would appear your victim never made it this far. The body is missing.”
***
As soon as I had finished speaking with Mortimer, I ran up the stairs and rapped sharply on Baxter's door.
“Good heavens, is there a fire?” Baxter exclaimed when he answered.
“Baxter, we have a dreadful problem.”
“Come in. Best to talk away from flapping ears. Now, what's happened?”
“Mortimer has just telephoned. Claryssa Winterbrook never arrived at the morgue. The body has gone missing, Baxter.”
He dropped into the armchair like a stone, a look of shock and disbelief on his face. “Good grief! Well, that's a first and no mistake. Is Mortimer playing the detective now?”
“I've given him the details of the doctor I spoke to yesterday, including the fact he worked at St. Bart's. Or so he told me. If Mortimer finds out anything, he'll telephone us here. But there's really very little for him to go on.”
“Well, there's nothing else for it but to continue as we intended. We'll wait here for Mortimer to telephone back. Hopefully, he'll have sorted things out and can tell us it's all been a mistake. Then, I suggest we move on to Gifford House. There must be someone who is looking after the place in Claryssa Winterbrook's absence.”
I agreed, although I didn't relish an hour’s drive across the island in weather that was getting more dangerous as the minutes ticked by. We decided to have some lunch while we waited for the pathologist to call, and twenty minutes later were in the dining room tucking into a hearty winter stew. Luckily, we were the only guests at the Wilton, which allowed us the privacy required to talk about the case. During lunch, we discussed what little we knew and the best way to proceed. Then, just as Mary served coffee, the telephone rang. It was Mortimer. This time, Baxter went to speak with him, and he returned more perturbed than ever.
“Bad news, I'm afraid, Miss Bridges. Not only has the body not been found, but the doctor you spoke to yesterday doesn't work, nor has he ever worked, at St Bartholomew's Hospital.”
“Oh, Baxter, no.”
“There's more, I'm afraid. The name he gave you was false. There is no doctor of that name on any register, and believe me, Mortimer has checked them all.”
I leaned back, my stomach churning with a combination of shock and all the heavy food I'd just consumed.
“What about the ambulance and the two porters? Surely they can't all have disappeared into thin air?”
“I'm sorry, Miss Bridges, but they seem to have done just that. There's no sign of the men or the vehicle. I've just telephoned the Yard and explained the situation. I've got constables searching along the route they would have taken from Hoving to London, but I don't hold out much hope. If their intention was never to go to London, then they could have driven anywhere.”
I felt nauseous as my mind flitted around, considering all the possible scenarios and reasons why the man I spoke to had lied. I glanced at Baxter, who was looking at me with concern. Doubtless he was thinking along similar lines. The man had lied about being a doctor, and the only thing that made sense was that he was somehow involved in the death of Claryssa Winterbrook himself. I'd stumbled upon a murder and had let him get away not only scot-free, but with the body and any associated evidence. It was, whichever way you looked at it, an unmitigated disaster.
***
“You can't blame yourself, you know,” Baxter said as we drank our coffee.
“I jolly well can, Baxter. You wouldn't have made such a stupid error. I never asked to see his credentials. And come to think of it, he never asked for mine. Obviously, he wanted to get away as quickly as possible. I know you would have handled it better, Baxter.”
“Don't you be too sure. From what you've told me, there was no need to suspect this man at all. He looked and sounded legitimate, and seemed to know what he was doing. He even had a doctor's bag. The witnesses all assumed he was who he said he was, so he was obviously very convincing.”
“There's no doubt about that, Baxter. I was taken in completely. And that part where he said he was on the way to the hospital in London … Oh, Baxter!”
“Have you remembered something? What is it?”
“He was on the wrong track, Baxter. I should have realised before! If he was on his way to London, as he claimed, then he should have been on the opposite platform. There was no reason for him to be on the southern line, as there's no access to the northern line from there; you have to approach it from the other side of town.”
“So you're saying he planned to be there?”
“There's no other explanation, is there? Which means he deliberately targeted Claryssa Winterbrook. But what does he want with … I mean, what is he going to do with …?” I couldn't bring myself to finish my thought, but Baxter knew precisely my meaning.
“Don't, Miss Bridges. That way madness lies.”
I nodded. He was right; if I started down that line, I'd be no good to anyone. “We need to find out all we can about Claryssa Winterbrook, Baxter. She was killed for a specific reason, and we need to know what it is. Determining that will hopefully lead us to find and apprehend him, whoever he may be.”
“That's the ticket, Miss Bridges. Gifford House is the best place to start looking for answers. We'll go there next.”
I rose, relieved to note that my initial feelings of shock and horror had been replaced by anger and determination. I'd been well and truly hoodwinked by this charlatan, but he was not going to get away with it.