Murder on Skiathos Read online

  He descended the path quickly, familiar with its various twists and turns, and each loose stone which might seek to hinder his progress. He did not look down at the beach, rather his gaze was directed at the sea beyond which twinkled and glistened in the early morning sun most invitingly. Having reached the sand, he disrobed in a matter of minutes and it was only when he had folded up his clothes neatly and was looking for a place to stow them on the beach, that he became aware of an unfamiliar object lying a little way from the bottom of the cliff.

  His first impression was that it was a collection of old hessian sacks which had been carelessly discarded by some slovenly fisherman. Indeed, he was in the very act of making a mental note that he would instruct one of his servants to dispose of them as soon as he returned to the hotel after his swim, when something about the bundle piqued his curiosity. He edged a step or two nearer and concluded that, on second glance, they did not appear to be made of the usual dense woven fabric normally associated with hessian sacks. For, unless he was mistaken, the material was black in colour rather than the usual light brown. Of course, it was quite possible that the material had become dirty and discoloured, particularly if it had spent the majority of its life at the bottom of a fishing boat, but, even so, something struck him as being not quite right.

  It was with some misgivings that he turned his back on the sea and set off down the beach towards the discarded pile. A moment or two later and he found himself running towards it, his breath laboured by a growing sense of urgency. It was not, however, until he was standing beside it that he could fully comprehend the spectacle that greeted his horrified eyes. It was not a pile of old sacking that was strewn on the beach as he had first supposed. Rather, it was the body of a man clothed in evening dress.

  Ralph Kettering knelt down gingerly beside the body and stretched out a hand to feel for a pulse. It was an unnecessary act, for a glance was sufficient to inform him that the life that had once inhabited this inanimate object was now extinct. Having satisfied himself that he was indeed looking at a corpse and that any help he could have offered before was now futile, he steeled himself to turn the body over so that he might have a look at its face. Afterwards, he wondered whether, notwithstanding the clothes in which the corpse was dressed, he had been expecting to see the gnarled, weather-beaten face of a fisherman. To find himself staring into the face of a man for whom manual toil and the external elements had been distinctly foreign was therefore something of a surprise. It was not this, however, that caused him to recoil and stumble to his feet in one quick, jerky movement. Neither was it the reason why a strangled cry sprung involuntarily from his lips. He had thought that nothing could shock him more than the discovery of a corpse on this stretch of beach. In this, however, he had been gravely mistaken. What drained the colour from his face and made his body tremble was the sudden, dreadful realisation that in life the corpse had been one of his hotel guests.

  Chapter Fifteen

  In the brief period between sleep and wakefulness, when her senses were still dulled by her dreams, Rose had the vague impression of sudden activity unfolding outside her bedroom window. The thud of hurrying feet on the terrace and the echo of harsh whispers floated to her ears from the other side of the heavy wooden shutters. In her stupefied state, she imagined that the sun and the shade were alternately casting their light and shadow across the bright, whitewashed walls. However, it was the low but persistent knocking on the main outer door to their rooms which gradually brought her to her senses.

  She heard the bolts being slowly drawn back and the sound of a muffled exclamation from their servant. A second later and the newcomer had evidently been admitted to the little room which served as an entrance hall. There was again the sound of muted footsteps, this time the servant departing in search of his master because there shortly followed something of a hurried exchange. Rose listened carefully and, though the words spoken were inaudible, emanating as they did from behind solid walls, she thought she recognised her husband’s voice, slightly raised in surprise. A glance at the clock on her bedside table informed her that it was a little after a quarter past seven. It struck her as a very early hour for a visitor to call and instinctively she grabbed her negligée. Her maid servant entered her room requesting, ever so politely, that if she would be so good as to get dressed as quickly as possible and join the gentlemen in the sitting room, it would be much appreciated.

  Rose, full of curiosity, readily obliged. It was a matter of only a few minutes before she made her way across the hall and opened the door to the sitting room. Two men, who had waited for her impatiently, rose to their feet to greet her. Cedric, dressed in pyjamas, over which had been hastily thrown a silk dressing gown, gave her a rueful smile. The other man, in contrast, was impeccably dressed in an outfit more suited to a London office than to the Mediterranean climate. To Rose’s keen eye, he gave the impression of being ill at ease, as if he feared that he had committed some awful faux-pas by descending on them at so untimely an hour.

  As if to confirm her thoughts, the first words uttered by the man were: ‘Your ladyship, it is very good of you to receive me at this hour.’

  ‘Good morning, Mr Kettering,’ said Rose, observing the hotel proprietor appeared rattled, though he was making a valiant effort to appear otherwise. In light of the man’s agitated state, she concluded that it would be best to dispense with the usual pleasantries and ascertain at once the reason for his visit. With this in mind, she asked, a little abruptly: ‘What may we do for you?’

  For a moment, the hotel proprietor appeared flustered, as if he did not know quite how to respond to such a direct question. Cedric, noting his confusion, was quick to come to his aid.

  ‘I think it would be better, Kettering, if you were to begin at the beginning,’ he said, ‘and give the particulars to her ladyship, just as you told them to me.’

  ‘Very good, my lord,’ said the hotel proprietor. ‘No’, he said, as Cedric indicated a chair, ‘that’s very kind of you, but I’d prefer to stand if you don’t mind; it helps me to think. Begin at the beginning, you say? Well, that would be this morning; about six o’clock. I was just telling his lordship, your ladyship, how it is my habit to go for an early morning swim. I find it most refreshing. I am firmly of the view that it clears the head and sets one up for the day.’ Rose smiled and nodded at him encouragingly, wondering where the story would lead. ‘Today was no exception. I went for my swim,’ continued Mr Kettering, growing in confidence as he got into his stride. ‘It looked a fine morning … it still does, of course, as far as the weather is concerned. Anyway, there was nothing to indicate that anything was amiss. I suppose it is worth mentioning at this juncture that I didn’t pass anyone as I made my way towards the cliff.’ He coughed self-consciously. ‘You will see the relevance of such a statement later on in my tale.’

  ‘I am certain of it,’ said Rose politely, somewhat intrigued.

  ‘I like to consider myself an observant sort of a fellow,’ continued the hotel proprietor, ‘but, as I say, I didn’t notice anything out of the ordinary. It was only when I was looking for a large stone or piece of driftwood under which I could stow my clothes while I was swimming that I noticed what I took to be a pile of old hessian sacking located not far from the bottom of the cliff.’

  ‘Only it wasn’t,’ said Cedric, rather tiring of hearing the story for the second time. ‘Old sacking, I mean. It was a body.’

  ‘A body?’ Rose’s eyes widened. Whatever she had been expecting to hear, it had not been this.

  ‘That’s right,’ concurred Mr Kettering, apparently relieved that Cedric had taken it upon himself to recount some of his tale. ‘At first I thought it must be the corpse of a fisherman. It certainly never occurred to me that it might be the body of one of my guests.’

  ‘One of your guests?’ exclaimed Rose. ‘Are you saying one of them toppled off the edge of the cliff?’

  ‘Yes. That’s to say in a manner of speaking.’

  In her
mind’s eye Rose saw Mr Vickers, staggering drunkenly across the dining room floor. She imagined him stumbling towards the cliff edge, waving wildly, a whisky bottle clutched in his hand. It didn’t take much imagination to fancy him tottering to the very edge of the cliff and swaying dangerously. It would only require one wrong foot or sudden gust of wind to send him hurtling down to the beach below.

  ‘Vickers. The body was that of Mr Vickers?’ Rose murmured. She posed the sentence more as a statement than as a question, so vivid was the picture she had conjured up in her imagination.

  ‘Vickers?’ said Ralph Kettering. He sounded surprised. ‘It wasn’t Vickers’ body I found on the sand. It was Mr Dewhurst’s.’

  ‘Alec Dewhurst’s?’

  ‘Yes.’

  For a moment there was a brief silence, punctuated only by the ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece. Then Rose said: ‘Are you quite certain? That it is Mr Dewhurst’s body, I mean?’

  Even as she asked the question, she knew it was absurd to think otherwise. There was no reason why the hotel proprietor should have made a mistake. In physical appearance, Alec Dewhurst had resembled none of the other guests at the hotel. His handsome, dark looks had set him apart. The emaciated and scrawny figure that was Mr Vickers could certainly never be mistaken for Alec Dewhurst’s, even in death.

  ‘It was Mr Dewhurst’s, all right,’ said Mr Kettering, pushing his horn-rimmed spectacles further up his nose.

  ‘Are you wanting me to tell the … his sister?’ said Rose. ‘Is that why you are here?’

  Mr Kettering coughed. ‘That is not exactly why I am here, your ladyship, though it would be most kind of you …’ He faltered. For the first time during the interview the hotel proprietor took no pains to conceal his obvious distress. Cedric looked at him with interest. It was obvious that Kettering had not mentioned to him why he had sought them out.

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Mr Kettering, regaining some of his composure. ‘The matter is a most delicate one. One hardly knows where to begin, or what precisely to say. As you suggest, my lord, one should begin at the beginning, but in a matter of such delicacy as this …’

  ‘You would like our advice concerning Miss Dewhurst?’ Rose suggested. ‘You are aware that Miss Dewhurst is not really Miss Dewhurst? By that I mean you know her to be the Duchess of Grismere?’

  For a moment Mr Kettering looked decidedly shocked. Then he mumbled: ‘His lordship may have mentioned something of the sort last night when we were dealing with … the business concerning Mr Vickers’ camera. But,’ he added quickly, as if he feared further scandalous suggestions, or indeed merely wished to get the matter off his chest, ‘the reason I have sought you out at this odd hour is that Mr Dewhurst’s death is not what it first appeared to be. That is to say, what I took at first glance to be an unfortunate accident may well in fact prove to be a murder.’

  This sentence was greeted by a shocked silence, and an exchange of horrified glances between husband and wife. If the hotel proprietor had said that the building was on fire and that they should run for their lives, the effect of his words could not have been more devastating to his audience. While the Earl and the Countess of Belvedere were well accustomed to violent death, here among the scorching sun and the olive groves, the sunken urns and the rugged cliffs, they had thought themselves to be immune from that particular evil in society. In this assumption they had evidently been wrong, for even here on the island of Skiathos, with its vibrant beauty, located as it was across the sea but still in the shadow of Athens and the classical gods, it appeared they could not escape the vile motives and actions of others that seemed to shape their almost monthly existence.

  Rose gave a heartfelt sigh. She had long been of the belief that in England murder actively sought her out. Due to the unquestionable fact that she had, purely by circumstance, become something of an amateur expert in the field, murder was drawn to her as absolutely, and irresistibly, as a wasp to a bottle of sweet lemonade. It was as if she held for it an awful fascination.

  ‘Dewhurst was murdered?’

  It was Cedric who spoke, his face visibly strained and pale beneath his tan. He sounded as if he had forced the words out against his better judgment. It is possible he thought that, if he remained silent, it might all turn out to be some sort of a horrid dream. Ralph Kettering, however, quick to dispel any such notion, picked up the cue thrown him with undue eagerness. It was evident to both his listeners that he was anxious to unburden himself of the awful knowledge of which, until a few moments ago, only he, a couple of trusted servants and the island doctor were in possession.

  ‘Unfortunate though it is, my lord, it would appear that he was. Of course, I can assure you the thought never crossed my mind when I first discovered his body. It was beneath the cliff, you see, so I just assumed …’ The hotel proprietor gave a shudder. ‘You see, I have never been overly fond of the sight of blood,’ he continued apologetically, as if he considered this a great failing on his part. ‘I didn’t study his … his injuries very closely. I just assumed that they were consistent with a fall from the cliff.’

  ‘You said just now that Mr Dewhurst had toppled over the edge of the cliff,’ said Rose, finding her voice at last. She had sat down on an old wooden chair positioned next to the wall. She had a hand held up to her mouth, as if she thought it might help her to draw breath and digest what she was being told.

  ‘If you recall, your ladyship, I said he had done in a manner of speaking,’ said Mr Kettering, a little diffidently, as if he half feared he was speaking out of turn. ‘That’s to say, Mr Dewhurst had undoubtedly fallen from the cliff but only, it would seem, as the result of a hard blow being struck to the back of his head.’

  ‘Oh?’ said Cedric, clearly interested in this new piece of information. ‘And how do you know that? Has a doctor examined the body?’

  ‘Yes, indeed. My first action on finding the body was, of course, to summon a doctor. Or should I say my second? My first task was to arrange for the body to be moved. I had it taken to one of the basement rooms in the hotel.’ Noting Cedric’s raised eyebrows, the hotel proprietor hurried on, as if he felt compelled to justify his actions. ‘The notion that the poor man had been murdered never occurred to me or I would of course have left the body where I found it. I thought it was an accident, a tragic one, yes, but an accident nevertheless. My overriding concern was that none of my guests should see the body. I had one of my servants summon Dr Costas. He is only an island doctor but, I should mention, of the first rate. I instructed him to examine the body, merely as a matter of form, you understand. It never occurred to me …’ At this point the hotel proprietor paused for a moment to mop his forehead with a large, white handkerchief. ‘It never occurred to me that he would say there was anything suspicious about the man’s death. If I am quite truthful, it has always been rather a worry of mine that one of my guests might take a wrong turn in the dark and topple over the cliff. I don’t encourage it, of course. Guests walking to the edge of the cliff in the dark, I mean, not taking wrong turns. But it is only human nature, I suppose … Why, even this morning before I found the body, I was wondering whether I should erect a fence. But of course, it would spoil the view and –’

  ‘I say, I suppose this doctor of yours couldn’t be mistaken?’ said Cedric interrupting, without ceremony, Mr Kettering’s somewhat rambling speech. ‘About the blow to the back of the head occurring before death, rather than as being the result of the fall, I mean?’ He began to pace the room and continued speaking without waiting for the answers to his questions. ‘Could the poor fellow not have struck his head during his fall? I don’t suppose,’ he added, though he sounded somewhat dubious, ‘he might have stumbled or slipped on something at the top of the cliff which caused him to fall?’

  ‘No, I put a similar question to Dr Costas. He is of the very firm belief that Mr Dewhurst was struck hard by a blunt instrument. Very particular about it, he was. The injury was not something he felt that the deceased could have inf
licted upon himself, either by accident or design. The position of the blow and the force used suggested to him otherwise.’

  ‘I see,’ said Cedric. Resigned now to the fact that the circumstances of the death were indeed suspicious, he ceased pacing the room. ‘Has this doctor of yours any idea as to the exact time of death? That’s to say, is there any reason to believe that it happened after dark, or is that just idle speculation? Mayn’t it have happened this morning, just before you yourself went down to the beach?’

  ‘No,’ said Mr Kettering, as if he were some all-knowing oracle. ‘Mr Dewhurst had been dead a number of hours when I found him, by Dr Costas’ reckoning rather than by my own, I might add. When I asked the good doctor to hazard a guess as to the time of death, he thought death was likely to have occurred sometime between ten o’clock last night and three o’clock this morning. I am afraid that he refused to be any more precise, though I pressed him.’

  ‘Between ten o’clock last night and two o’clock this morning?’ reflected Cedric. His face brightened a little. ‘Perhaps we can be a little more exact than that. After all, the poor fellow dined in the dining room last night. Why, I saw him myself. He supped at the Adlers’ table, as was his habit. And afterwards, no doubt, he danced. I didn’t see him do so myself, as I was otherwise engaged in dealing with that awful Vickers chap. But you, my dear,’ he said, glancing at his wife, who he thought looked unusually pale, ‘must have seen him dancing?’