Peter Lovesey - Mad Hatter

He folded the newspaper carefully, with the article innermost, and set it beside him with two large pebbles to anchor it. A third he kept in his hand, enjoying the feel of its smooth, cool underside in his palm. The colour was the bluish-grey that seemed to prevail in the shingle near the West Pier. A white seam, marvellous in its precision, bisected it. He turned the stone slowly, examining the surface for some flaw, but there was none. A perfect object in an imperfect world. He rested it against his cheek and tried to decide what he should do.

The subject of the newspaper article accounted for his almost solitary occupation of the beach-or at least the stretch of it between the two stone groynes. It was not that people shunned the foreshore because of its association with violence, nor that they paled at the prospect of what little William might turn over with his wooden spade. Almost the contrary. They were all at the fish market, watching the comings and goings of the police, or filing through the Aquarium for a peep at the crocodile tank. The public at large had an insatiably morbid curiosity-so long as events did not touch them personally.

A woman of about thirty, the newspapers said. Dark complexion. Black sealskin jacket. It was not much to go on, not the kind of description that settled anything, although who was to say what the surgeon might discover in his examination-some scar, perhaps, or a birthmark? In cases of that sort, did the relatives of the deceased have memory or knowledge of such intimate details; weren’t those the very blemishes a young woman sought to conceal from everyone-even her husband? Perhaps, after all, the remains would never be identified.

That was the curious thing about it: that the husband and son had not come forward to report her disappearance. How could anyone be so lacking in concern, so callous as to continue the holiday-the daily swim, the promenading, the visits to Lewes Crescent-as though nothing untoward had happened? If it were cruel to die, how infinitely more cruel when one’s closest relatives appeared not to have noticed one’s passing.

Going to the police would ruin the rest of his holiday, he knew. There would be difficult questions, statements to make, hours of waiting in police stations and later in the courts, notoriety of a sort-bad for business. Yet there was an inevitability about it all, a feeling that from the moment he had first brought her into focus he was no longer in control of events. So many things he had done since then had been contrary to all his practice, entirely out of character. Who would have thought a fortnight previously that he would today be sitting on a deserted beach actually wanting to be alone, when crowds-the exciting, inspiriting crowds he had never been able to resist-were massing in other parts of the town, a short walk away? No doubt about it: Zena Prothero had changed him fundamentally. Whatever the consequences, he owed it to her memory to answer Sergeant Cribb’s appeal for assistance. There was no need to tell everything; simply enough to remove all doubts about her identity. He refused to allow her to become a ‘person unknown,’ a pen-stroke on a file at Scotland Yard. He got up decisively and flung the white-seamed pebble far into the waves. Then he picked up his newspaper, reminded himself of the address of the nearest police station, and started along the beach.

It was gratifying to discover that Sergeant Cribb was a sensitive listener, tolerant of others’ little whimsies, not in the least disparaging about the optical experiments. The interview at Grafton Street lasted more than two hours and he was treated throughout with the utmost civility. He told the sergeant everything he thought he should know about Zena-of course, there were things one did not need to go into-even offering at the end to look at the severed hand, but Cribb explained that it was now in formalin and would be difficult to identify unless one were accustomed to such things.

‘For the present,’ said the sergeant, ‘I’m quite content with the information you’ve volunteered, Mr. Moscrop. You don’t mind if I go over one or two points again, so that Constable Thackeray here can check his notes?’

‘Please do.’

‘Very good, sir. The last time you saw Mrs. Prothero yourself was last Friday, when you met her by the croquet-lawn at the Albemarle to collect the sleeping-draught and get it analysed, is that correct, sir?’

‘On Friday, yes.’

‘And she seemed in good spirits then?’

‘Oh yes. There was an air of conspiracy about the whole thing which seemed to excite her. I found it rather taxing, myself.’

‘She arranged to meet you outside the hotel the following evening, to get the results of the analysis?’

‘Yes, at half past eight.’

‘But you were met by Bridget, the maid, instead. What time was that?’

‘Later. I remember looking at my watch. It was about nine o’clock. I had almost decided to leave.’

‘You’ve got that, Thackeray?’ said Cribb. ‘And what did Bridget say about her mistress, Mr. Moscrop?’

‘I understood that she was prevented from coming to meet me by her husband announcing that he was going out and insisting that she took her sleeping-draught before he went. However, she was reluctant to take the preparation without having seen the formula, so she pretended to have taken it-”foxed” was Bridget’s expression, I remember- and feigned sleep when Dr. Prothero looked in on her. Of course, it was impossible afterwards, even though she was awake, to dress again in the short time remaining and come to meet me.’

‘I can appreciate that, sir. So you gave the slip of paper with the formula on it to Bridget instead?’

‘Yes. I explained that it was chloral hydrate she had been taking, and quite harmless. Then we were interrupted by the fireworks, I recall.’

‘Ah yes. The night of the regiment’s home-coming. There was a crowd to watch, I expect?’

‘One soon materialised, Sergeant. People came from the hotels and lodging-houses and down the Old Steine to watch. Many were watching from the hotel balconies, young Guy Prothero included.’

‘Not his stepmother, though.’

‘No. She may have been watching from inside, however. Soon after that, Bridget left me to rejoin her and I made my way back along the front towards my lodgings.’

‘You didn’t stop to see the end of the fireworks, sir?’

‘Pyrotechnics do not impress me over-much, Sergeant.’

‘Nor me, sir. What time was it that you started your walk back?’

‘About half past nine, I would estimate.’

‘And when did you get back?’

‘Oh, I cannot remember. Perhaps an hour later. I was in no hurry.’

‘Possibly your landlady would recall?’

‘Perhaps. No, I don’t believe I saw her. I let myself in. I have a key, you know. Why are you interested?’

‘I must get my times straight, sir. Sometimes it’s crucial in a case like this, you know.’ Cribb spoke with the air of a man imparting official secrets. ‘A level-headed witness such as yourself can make all the difference when we’re obliged to give evidence in court. There’s a lot of reliance placed on times.’

‘I’m quite sure.’

‘Anyway, sir, you got back to the lodgings and went to bed. What happened next day?’

‘It was Sunday, Sergeant. I went to church. I did not see the Protheros all day. I rather hoped that they might promenade or join the carriage parade after church, but I saw nothing of them. Nor was Zena-Mrs. Prothero, I should say-in her usual place on the beach the following day, although the weather was ideal. I did see the doctor on Monday, however, and in compromising circumstances which seemed not to perturb him one whit.’

‘Really, sir? What was he doing?’