Peter Lovesey - Mad Hatter

‘Decent sentiment,’ said Cribb, with a sniff. ‘Did you ask her about the sealskin jacket we dug up?’

‘The jacket? Why, no,’ said Moscrop. ‘It wasn’t hers, was it? Your constable told me that all the buttons were in place. But I did succeed in convincing her that she had a public duty to present herself at a police station to show that she was alive. She said she would do better than that. She would come to Brighton again and meet you, since you are in charge of the inquiry.’

‘Good. That’ll save me from another ploughman’s lunch in Dorking. When’s she coming?’

‘Tomorrow morning. She was intending anyway to go on to Worthing tonight, where she has a sister, and return to Dorking tomorrow. At my suggestion she will take the first passenger-steamer tomorrow morning, and I very much hope that you will be able to meet the Brighton when it docks at the West Pier soon after ten o’clock. I must explain, though, that she is most particular about not being seen in conversation with you. She is anxious not to discommode her husband, you understand.’

‘Why should he feel discommoded if she talks to me?’ asked Cribb.

‘Ah. Well it seems that you made a not too favourable impression there, Sergeant, when you had lunch with Dr. Prothero at Mutton’s. He must have given her an account of it, because she will only consent to see you if you go on board the Brighton while it is moored at the pier. She fears that in any other part of the town there is a risk of his seeing her in conversation with you.’

‘A clandestine meeting, eh? You’ve got me at it now, Mr. Moscrop. And I suppose you’ll need to be there to make the introductions. Very well, sir. Ten o’clock on the pier-head.’

Moscrop was there by half past nine, watching with the Zeiss for the line of dark smoke that would indicate the steamer’s approach. The morning was cool, the sky flecked with thin cloud in a herring-bone pattern, the beach deserted except for fishermen and a few small boys armed hopefully with shrimping-nets. On the pier one received the inescapable impression of being an intruder, although the turnstile-man accepted the twopence readily enough. Brawny employees of the company, normally out of sight, were swabbing the decks in a perfunctory fashion and providing an exhibition of bare chests and braces. Moscrop was careful not to upset any of them by stepping on their work.

Sergeant Cribb, when he arrived fifteen minutes after, was less sensitive, planting his feet confidently on the wet planking, his lofty frame reflected under him. There was a man with style, Moscrop decided. No pier-hand would be so injudicious as to question his right to cross the boards.

‘Fresh breeze this morning, Mr. Moscrop. There’s a choppy look to that water. I hope the lady’s a good sailor.’

By now the Brighton was well in view and steaming past Shoreham. ‘Would you care to try the binoculars, Sergeant?’

‘No thank you, sir. I’ve made it my practice to avoid using such things.’

‘Really? I should have thought them an invaluable weapon for fighting crime.’

‘In isolated cases, yes,’ said Cribb. ‘Most other times they’re a perishing nuisance. A positive encouragement to crime.’

‘Come, come, Sergeant. That sounds to me like a claim you cannot possibly substantiate. Which particular crime do you have in mind?’

‘Dipping, sir.’

‘Dipping?’

‘Picking pockets. When a man’s peering through those things, he’s a perfect invitation to a dipper. I could have copped four or five of the locals at it this week alone if I hadn’t had more important things to do. It’s a seaside occupation. Make a count of your handkerchiefs when you get home. Then you’ll know if I’m exaggerating.’

They were joined at this point by several swarthy individuals in nautical clothes, ready for the steamer’s arrival. Moscrop slipped the glasses quickly into their case. He would never be able to use them with the same confidence again.

Little more was said until the Brighton had berthed and a handful of passengers disembarked. Gulls screamed and swooped about the pier distractingly as Cribb and Moscrop descended the iron staircase to the landing stage. Words were exchanged with the white-capped man controlling the gangway, and they stepped across to the vessel itself.

‘She’ll be below,’ Moscrop explained confidently.

She was, alone in the First Class Saloon, wearing a bottle-green coat in a military style and boots with ‘fast’ front lacings. Moscrop effected the introductions and stepped back.

‘Handsome of you to come all this way to see me, Ma’am,’ said Cribb.

‘Oh, no. Handsome of you, Sergeant Cribb, to agree to see me on my own terms.’ Under the rakishly-angled hat, which matched her coat in colour, her face was more pale than Moscrop remembered it, but the features just as exquisite. ‘Particularly since I would seem to have put you to some trouble. Mr. Moscrop told me that you thought I was dead. I hope I can reassure you on that point.’

‘Thank you, Ma’am. It was a bit of a puzzle to me when you left Brighton in such a hurry. The little boy was ill, I understand.’

‘Jason? Yes. My husband decided that Brighton had upset him, so I took him back to Dorking on Sunday.’

‘What was the matter with him exactly?’

‘Oh, he was fretful the day before, you know, and awfully flushed. We thought he might have pains in his stomach. He has quite recovered now, the little beast. I wish you could see him. Mr. Moscrop is quite attached to Jason, aren’t you, darling? But Scotland Yard didn’t come to listen to a mother’s doting nonsense, did it, Sergeant?’

Cribb took the cue. ‘Might I trouble you about a few things just to set matters straight, Ma’am? I wonder whether you can recall how you spent last Saturday evening, your last night in Brighton.’

She put her hand to her forehead. ‘Saturday evening? Good God! This is just like one of those novels from the circulating library. The characters always remember exactly what the policeman wants to hear.’

‘It would have been your last night in Brighton, Ma’am,’ Cribb prompted her.

‘The night of the firework-display? Oh, yes, I shan’t let you down after all. I have a clear recollection. All too embarrassing, now I come to talk about it. Mr. Moscrop and I had made a secret arrangement, hadn’t we, my chuck? Being a man with scientific interests, you see, and an absolute Galahad to ladies in distress, he agreed to help me find out what my sleeping-potion consisted of, and took it to a chemist in Brighton. We arranged that he should bring me the answer and-well, you could tell Sergeant Cribb, yourself, couldn’t you, darling?’

‘I’d rather hear it from you, if you don’t mind, Ma’am,’ said Cribb quickly.

‘Very well.’ She shrugged. ‘There’s precious little to tell. Prothero, my husband, decided to go out for the evening, and was most particular about my being in bed before he went. I’m inclined to be nervous, you see.’

‘I hadn’t noticed it, Ma’am.’

‘How gallant! So I retired before Prothero left and pretended to have taken my sleeping-potion. That was unfortunate, really, because being in my night-things I could not possibly meet my knight in shining armour, Mr. Moscrop. I had to send my nursemaid, Bridget, instead. It must have seemed monstrously ungrateful.’

‘Not at all,’ murmured Moscrop.

‘Then the fireworks began. Oh, awfully exciting, and almost in front of the hotel! We had a grandstand position. Such fireworks, too! Sky-rockets and Catherine wheels and Chinese crackers. Set-pieces in tribute to the regiment, her Majesty’s head in profile and a crocodile, to represent Egypt, you know!’