Murder on Skiathos Read online

  She was abruptly roused from her musings by Lavinia, who gave a surprised gasp. ‘Why, it’s Miss Dewhurst!’

  ‘It was my dear sister who recognised her from the photograph,’ began Miss Hyacinth, a trifle apologetically, suddenly aware that her actions might have certain ramifications. Indeed, there was a part of her that wished she had not produced the newspaper for all to see. As it was, she was uncomfortably aware that Mr Vickers was taking an uncommon interest in the photograph. Indeed, he had gone so far as to advance on them and grasp hold of one edge of the newspaper, pulling it towards him in a most insolent manner. Miss Hyacinth pursed her lips and frowned. Really, she thought, the man is becoming insufferable. Why, the page had been in very real danger of being torn. It was with a certain smugness, therefore, that she noted that Mr Vickers’ discourteous actions had elicited a glare from Mr Thurlow. Such a nice young man, she thought. Had she been Rose, she might have noticed that the courier was himself eyeing the photograph in rather a peculiar manner. Unlike the others, he did not appear inclined to step forward and peer at the newspaper; if anything, he seemed disposed to recoil from it, taking a step or two backwards, which unfortunately resulted in him colliding with a chair which he sent toppling over. The subsequent clatter brought him sharply to his senses, though his face remained pale under its tan.

  ‘It is Miss Dewhurst, isn’t it?’ continued Lavinia, persistent in her questioning as ever, though there was a note of incredulity in her voice. The question, rather than being addressed to Miss Hyacinth, was directed to her brother. ‘You have met her, haven’t you, the Duchess of Grismere, I mean?’

  After a moment’s deliberation, Cedric said: ‘On a couple of occasions. There is a resemblance, certainly, but …’ he faltered, unsure how to continue, aware that all eyes were now turned on him.

  ‘You think it’s her, all right, don’t you, your lordship?’ chirped in Mr Vickers, with an unnatural eagerness, which made those present wonder whether he had already been at the spirits notwithstanding the earliness of the hour. ‘You don’t think it right or proper to tell us, and very decent of you to be sure, seeing as how you’re trying to protect her ladyship’s reputation and all, but the truth will out, and it’s better as how we know.’

  ‘Mr Vickers!’ exclaimed Miss Hyacinth, visibly appalled by the man’s speech, which seemed to her as uneducated as it was repulsive. These sentiments appeared to be shared by the young earl, who regarded the man coldly.

  ‘No,’ said Cedric mendaciously. ‘I admit there is a certain likeness, but –’

  ‘How can you deny it?’ cried Lavinia, apparently oblivious to all else but seeking out the truth. ‘Miss Dewhurst is the Duchess of Grismere, you know she is.’ Her voice had risen rather shrilly, and Rose wondered whether her words could be heard out on the terrace where Mr Dewhurst and the Adlers were breakfasting. A fleeting look in their direction, however, reassured her that they were quite ignorant of the discussion taking place in the dining room. Rather, Mr Dewhurst and Miss Adler appeared deep in conversation, with the vicar looking on as a benevolent spectator.

  ‘I say,’ continued Lavinia, turning to address her sister-in-law, ‘that is what the two of you were whispering about, isn’t it? Cedric recognised the duchess and was discussing with you whether or not you should tell me.’

  ‘Do be quiet, Lavinia, there’s a good egg,’ said Cedric, with an attempt at flippancy, which failed rather dismally.

  ‘I wonder,’ continued his sister as if he had not spoken, ‘what possessed her to come to this island?’

  ‘We do not know for certain that it is the duchess,’ said Rose hurriedly, sharing some of her husband’s reservations over the fact becoming common knowledge. Certainly, she did not like the way Mr Vickers’ bottom lip was quivering with emotion, or his manner of staring at her with eager anticipation, as if he thought she might be persuaded to divulge something incriminating.

  Lavinia pouted and said stubbornly: ‘Well, Ceddie has met the Duchess of Grismere and …’ She did not finish her sentence, for she had caught her brother’s eye and interpreted correctly his look of warning. She flushed rather prettily and with obvious reluctance continued with her breakfast.

  There was an awkward silence. Miss Hyacinth, possibly realising that she had overstepped the mark, or that nothing further could be elicited from the Belvederes’ table, withdrew tactfully to join her sister, the offending newspaper clutched under her arm. Meanwhile, Ron Thurlow remained standing where he was for a few seconds, gazing into the distance. For a fleeting moment, a peculiar expression appeared on his face which Rose, watching him closely, found difficult to interpret. It seemed to her a strange mixture of emotions ranging from wonder to horror. What was painfully evident, however, was that something had shocked the young man. Before she could dwell on the matter any further, Ron, recollecting his surroundings, looked about him quickly, caught her eye and smiled somewhat ruefully. After nodding briefly at those seated at the Belvederes’ table, he returned to his own, clearly in deep meditation; though this time, Rose noticed, he took steps to conceal his thoughts from prying eyes.

  It was not Ron Thurlow’s demeanour, however, that caused Rose most speculation, or indeed, cause for concern. Rather, it was Mr Vickers’. At the best of times she found that gentleman’s presence objectionable. However, this morning there had been something particularly insulting in his behaviour, not least in the way that he had addressed her husband with offensive familiarity, prying and probing to scent out a fragment of scandal like an officious bloodhound on the track of some wild boar. She stole a furtive glance towards his table and her heart sank. For there was a gleam in his eye and his face was flushed red, for once with excitement rather than with whisky. Indeed, the man could barely contain his emotions. What was more, it was evident that he intended to make a hurried breakfast. On this occasion, Rose thought it unlikely that the lure of the hotel bar was the reason for his quickened steps, rather, she thought, he was driven by a much stronger influence.

  It was then that the thought struck Rose forcefully, causing her to catch her breath and clutch at the tablecloth, as if to steady herself. How very dense and stupid they had all been. They had dismissed Vickers as the hotel bore and frowned rather condescendingly at his dishevelled appearance and partiality to liquor. Yet to the Duchess of Grismere, with a reputation that hung so precariously in the balance, he was of much greater significance than that. For, unless Rose was very much mistaken, of all of them he could do her the greatest harm. With these thoughts uppermost in her mind, Rose watched as the man in question licked his lips, passing his tongue over teeth that only now she noticed were discoloured and yellow. She grabbed at her husband’s arm, pulling at the fabric of his sleeve in her urgency. Somewhat taken aback, Cedric bent his head towards her so that she could whisper in his ear.

  ‘Quick!’ Rose said. ‘We must warn the duchess!’

  ‘Well, of course it’s the duchess,’ declared Miss Peony vehemently, as soon as the Trimble sisters had retired to their room to gather their things in readiness for the day ahead. ‘You only had to look at the earl and the countess’ faces to see it was. Why they didn’t just admit it and get it over and done with, I don’t know. They must take us for fools. Still,’ she sniffed, and added rather disparagingly, ‘I suppose Lord Belvedere’s just trying to protect her character, not that she deserves it, duchess or no duchess.’ She paused to run a finger over the top surface of the tallboy, searching for dust. Tutting, she said: ‘Of course, it’s more than likely that it’s that husband of hers he’s trying to shield.’ She made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a snort. ‘Them lot stick together.’

  ‘Which lot, dear?’ enquired Miss Hyacinth, only half listening.

  ‘Toffs,’ replied her sister with relish.

  ‘Really, Peony dear,’ said Miss Hyacinth, with a note of disapproval in her voice. Sometimes she despaired of her sister, she really did. She returned her gaze pointedly to the dressing table mirror, befo
re which she sat adjusting her straw hat. It did not prevent her from being uncomfortably conscious that her sibling sat regarding her with a sardonic smile. Ordinarily, she would have pretended not to notice and indeed taken measures not to antagonise her sister; today, however, she had a growing conviction that they had been in the wrong. Her back towards her sibling, she began rather tentatively: ‘I do rather think we ought not to have done it. No,’ she added hurriedly, aware that her sister was very likely to protest, ‘I daresay we are quite right in believing Miss Dewhurst to be the Duchess of Grismere, but to say so … so openly in front of all the other hotel guests … well, I think we made a grave mistake. I blame myself entirely.’

  ‘And so you should,’ retorted her sister, somewhat unexpectedly. ‘It was your idea, not mine, to go marching over to the earl’s table and thrust that newspaper in his face like some sort of town crier.’ Something of a malicious gleam came into the older woman’s eyes. ‘Father would have been disgusted by such behaviour, and rightly so. He’d have considered it common and beneath you.’

  ‘As if you ever cared what dear Father thought, Peony,’ Miss Hyacinth replied with spirit, though her face visibly crumbled at mention of doing anything of which her late, revered parent would have disapproved. In the ordinary course of events, it was likely to reduce her to a fit of weeping. Possibly fearing this, Miss Peony sniffed and, relenting somewhat, said rather begrudgingly: ‘There, there, don’t go on so. I daresay they’ll think you’re just a silly old woman who hasn’t got anything better to do than spread gossip.’ Aside to herself in a voice barely audible, she added: ‘And they wouldn’t be far wrong, neither!’

  Fortunately, Miss Hyacinth did not hear this part of her sister’s speech. She turned around in her chair, however, and addressed her sibling with an imploring look. ‘Oh dear … oh dear me. What must they think of me? I wouldn’t have shown them, of course, only I caught Lady Belvedere looking at us in such a curious manner, and I suppose we must have looked rather suspicious. Really, I can’t think what possessed me to bring the newspaper in to breakfast, and then to hide it under the napkins and take peeks at it as if we were a couple of giggling schoolgirls ...’

  Miss Peony gave her croak of a laugh. ‘You should have seen their faces. I could study them closely from where I was sitting without being observed because, of course, no one gives me the time of day. Ha-ha, his lordship looked horrified.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Miss Hyacinth again, a favourite expression of hers when she was unsure what to say. After a moment’s reflection, however, she rallied a little. ‘I still think as how it was right what I did. After all, they were all bound to find out and the duchess’ young man … I suppose it is just possible,’ she continued, sounding doubtful, ‘that he really is her brother?’

  ‘Pah! If he’s her brother, I’ll eat my hat!’ retorted her sibling. ‘She’s run away with him, that’s what she’s done, and her a married woman and all. Well, she’ll rue the day, Hyacinth, if she hasn’t already, you mark my words,’ said the older woman, wagging her finger at her sister.

  It was with a degree of satisfaction that she noted the horrified look on her sibling’s face. It was only too easy to shock Hyacinth, she reflected. She supposed it was due to their sheltered upbringing, though she herself had tried to rise above it, and if it hadn’t been for her awful deafness she might have succeeded and made a bit of a life for herself. Of course, she could hardly blame Hyacinth for that, yet it aroused in her certain feelings of animosity towards her sister. It also inclined her to bouts of vindictiveness, which she was later apt to regret. Staring at Hyacinth’s face now, pale under its sunburn, and all but dwarfed under the brim of the ridiculous straw hat she would insist on wearing, Peony felt the inevitable stirrings within her to be malevolent.

  She gave her a sly look. ‘That vicar of yours, you think so highly of, had better look out,’ she said maliciously. She was rewarded by her sister giving her a worried look of surprise.

  ‘I don’t suppose you noticed how that young man of the duchess’ was all over the vicar’s daughter? That Adler girl has not a brain in her head, and she’s no better than she ought to be, fluttering her eyes at any chap who shows the slightest bit of interest in her.’ Miss Peony, getting into her stride, gave a malevolent smile. ‘Last week it was that travel company fellow she lost her head over. Well, I’ll say this for him, he seems a decent sort and not the type to take advantage, so I suppose there was no harm done. But you can’t say the same about that other fellow. He doesn’t mind carrying on with one woman if she’ll keep him, while dallying with another just for the fun of it –’

  ‘Peony!’ exclaimed Miss Hyacinth, palpably appalled by her sister’s vulgar rhetoric and spitefulness. ‘That will do. If you say one more word on the matter, I shall walk out of this room and leave you here.’ Miss Peony, possibly aware that she had been particularly ferocious in her criticism, or afraid that her sister would indeed carry out her threat, had the grace to look a little sheepish, which gave Miss Hyacinth the encouragement she needed to proceed with her reprimand. ‘Really, dear, at times you can be most unfair. Miss Adler was just showing Mr Dewhurst some Christian kindness by inviting him to join her and her father for breakfast.’

  ‘You didn’t see the way he looked at her, or she at him,’ muttered her sister, ‘to say nothing of the looks Mr Thurlow was giving him. Daggers –’ She stopped abruptly, aware that she had tried her sister’s patience to its limit. Deciding to change tack, she took a step forward and lowered her voice. ‘You keep an eye out for that girl, Hyacinth, or she’ll come to no good.’

  Chapter Nine

  ‘Are you saying that Vickers is working for the penny press?’ asked Cedric, clearly appalled by the suggestion. Like the Trimbles, the Bevelderes had returned to their rooms to don their apparel for the day ahead. In the earl’s case, this consisted of tennis flannels and a cotton shirt.

  ‘It is just a thought I had,’ said Rose, smoothing down the skirt of her summer dress and standing before the dressing table mirror to put on her sun hat. She had waited until they had returned to their rooms to express her view, anxious to ensure that they were out of the hearing of the other hotel guests. ‘It would explain why Mr Vickers was so very keen that you identify Miss Dewhurst as the duchess.’

  ‘I can’t say I took to the fellow myself. And if what you say is correct …well, it’s a rum go, all right.’ Cedric pondered the matter a little longer before he spoke again. ‘It was Vickers who suggested that the duchess would be coming here to this island, to this very hotel, wasn’t it?’ he said. ‘Didn’t you say he said as much to Miss Hyacinth?’

  ‘Yes, though he denied it all later. In fact, if you remember,’ said Rose, warming to the subject, ‘he was frightfully rude to her when she raised the matter with him at dinner.’

  ‘I suppose he cursed himself for having spoken so freely. I mean to say, a chap like that would need to keep his cards close to his chest if he were after a scoop,’ said her husband, beginning to pace the room. ‘He wouldn’t want Miss Hyacinth going about letting the cat out of the bag and telling all and sundry.’ He chuckled in spite of himself. ‘I can’t for the life of me think why he thought the woman would hold her tongue. I suppose he was somewhat inebriated at the time.’

  ‘It would also explain what he is doing staying in this hotel,’ mused Rose, continuing her train of thought. ‘I have always thought it rather odd his being here.’

  ‘Yes. He doesn’t look the sort of chap who could rub two pennies together, let alone afford to stay in a place like this.’

  Rose suppressed a smile at her husband’s unconscious snobbery. Aloud, she said: ‘What I meant was that he rather gave me the impression that he despised us all; his fellow guests, I mean.’

  ‘He certainly has a tendency to keep himself to himself,’ concurred Cedric.

  ‘I confess I was rather curious about him,’ admitted Rose, blushing slightly in light of what she was about to divulge. ‘In fa
ct, I asked Mr Kettering this morning if he knew what Mr Vickers did to earn his living.’

  ‘Ho, you did, did you?’ said her husband, evidently amused.

  ‘Yes. Mr Kettering said he wasn’t certain, but he thought Mr Vickers was some sort of commercial traveller.’

  Cedric made a face. ‘I daresay at a stretch I could just about picture Vickers donned in a bowler hat and a large overcoat, though of the faded and crumpled variety, of course. Not that I can imagine him selling anything to anyone.’

  ‘Which is all the more reason to suppose I was right in the first place,’ said Rose. ‘Mr Vickers is really a journalist.’

  ‘In which case,’ said Cedric with a tightening of the lips, all attempt at frivolity and flippancy forsaken, ‘we must, as you say, warn the duchess to be on her guard. If common-sense prevails, she’ll keep to her rooms. If not, it’ll be in all the papers how she’s run off with a man young enough to be the duke’s grandson!’

  As had become his custom of late, after breakfasting that morning, Ron Thurlow withdrew hurriedly to his own modest room where he lay down wearily on his bed, conscious that his meal sat heavy on his stomach. It had also left a bitter after taste in his mouth. For one fleeting moment, earlier, he had been tempted to join the party that gathered each morning on the terrace, if only to overhear their conversation. Mabel who, until that fateful day when they had first encountered Alec Dewhurst on the cliff path, had encouraged Ron’s attentions, had greeted him that morning with a look which could be best described as ambivalent. It had not been the girl’s expression, however, which had stayed Ron’s steps, but rather the sardonic grin from her companion, whose dark eyes had gleamed with malicious intent. Ron had hesitated, wavering between facing the danger head on, and recoiling in defeat. He had chosen the latter, and now, stretched out on his bed in the relative safety of his room, he cursed his own cowardice.