Resort to Murder: A must-read vintage crime mystery. TP Fielden
Pisces: an event of great joy is about to occur – to you, or your loved ones.
Sagittarius: look around and see new things today! They are glorious!
Cancer: never forget how kind a friend can be to you. Do the same for them and you will be rewarded threefold!
People read her column and felt better. Those very few who had been privileged to actually meet Athene were struck by her special radiance, and it was only a fool who dismissed her outpourings as ingenuous nonsense.
Tonight, she was wearing a lemon top, pink skirt and purple trousers. The plimsolls on her feet were quite worn and of differing hues, but one of them matched perfectly the blue paper rose she wore in the bun on the back of her head. In the half-light the overall effect was strangely soothing.
‘I can’t believe it was an accident,’ said Miss Dimont. They had walked over to a bench on the promenade and sat to watch the last golden light slowly disappear from the horizon.
‘The girl?’ asked Athene.
‘Yes, the girl.’
‘I was there,’ said Athene. ‘On the beach.’
‘Todhempstead Sands?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good Lord, why didn’t you say sooner, Athene? This could be murder, you know.’
Athene turned her head slowly to her companion. ‘She didn’t die there.’
Miss Dimont, the veteran of many a similar inquiry, was bemused. How could Athene Madrigale be witness to a murder – or an accidental death, whichever it was – and not tell anyone?
‘Why …?’ she started.
‘I was counting the clouds, dear. It’s very difficult – have you ever tried? Altostratus, cumulonimbus, dear sweet cirrus – I was too busy to really see what happened.’
‘But …’
‘I only noticed when those policemen came down onto the beach. Then I saw the girl’s body.’
‘So how could you know whether she died there or not?’
‘The clouds told me.’
Miss Dimont kicked her raffia bag in frustration. On the one hand she had an eyewitness, on the other she did not. Then again, most things Athene said turned out to be true – but if this was a murder, if the girl had died on or near the beach, as evidence it was valueless.
For the time being, at least.
‘I’m going back to the office,’ said Judy. ‘Coming?’ Home and Mulligatawny were going to have to wait tonight.
‘Have to think carefully about my column,’ said Athene. ‘I’ll make you some of my special tea if you’re still there later.’
Miss Dimont walked over to the kerbside where Herbert, her faithful moped, stood expectantly awaiting their next expedition. At the kick of a pedal, he sprang cheerfully into action and together they made their way back up the promenade towards the Riviera Express.
Though during the day the newspaper office was like a ship’s engine room, a positive maelstrom of movement and drama, by the time dusk fell the place was usually empty – as if news only happened during the day! She walked up the long corridor to the newsroom, past the mousetraps laid down to capture nocturnal visitors, but as she approached she could hear the slow, almost ghostly, tapping of a typewriter.
She pushed open the door and looked down the long office to her desk. Seated with his back to her was the new boy, Valentine whatsisname. He appeared to be writing something up, and was taking his time about it.
Miss Dimont was not pleased. She wanted the place to herself.
‘Hello, Valentine,’ she said, not entirely kindly. ‘Don’t you have a home to go to?’
The young man swung round and delivered a rueful smile. ‘Actually there was a bit of a palaver over accom,’ he replied. ‘They parked me in the oddest place – a bed and breakfast done up to look like a castle, only the inside walls of the house were painted like the outside of the castle. Not quite the home from home.’
From this light mockery might be deduced the young Waterford once actually lived in a castle. He’d been quite evasive about where he came from.
‘They all go there,’ said Judy. ‘Usually last longer than you before making a bolt for it.’
‘Actually there’s a cottage belonging to the family. Thought it better to go there. Bedlington.’
Miss Dimont looked over his shoulder at the paper in Valentine’s typewriter. ‘So what are you writing now?’
‘I was given a word of advice by Mr Ross,’ he said, nodding amiably towards the old Scotsman. ‘He said the first thing you should do when you join a newspaper is write your own obituary.’
‘Are you thinking of dying any time soon, Valentine?’
‘You never know.’
‘How old are you?’
‘Twenty-three soon.’
Miss Dimont sat down at her desk. It had been her intention to write a Comment piece about the award-winning fishermen – brave, hardy men bringing lustre to Temple Regis along with their rich daily harvest – but it was getting late and she’d had an early start. Her return to the office was more a delaying tactic because by now she was exhausted – and the thought of kick-starting Herbert, who could be obstructive if left waiting too long in the dark, suddenly drained her of the will to go home.
‘How are you getting on?’ she asked, more out of good manners than with any real interest.
‘It’s difficult. School, army, one day on the newspaper. Not a lot to write about. Then I thought, well, I could add a bit about my family background so I started doing that. But then it seemed rather boastful so I …’
Miss Dimont’s eyes travelled down to the wicker bin by Valentine’s ankle and saw that he must have been at his task for some time – it was overflowing with rejected copy paper, scrumpled and torn and trodden on. This young man is very keen, she observed.
‘What is there of interest about your, er, the Waterfords?’ she asked.
‘Well, rather ancient. Been around a long time, quite a few of us. None of them journalists.’
‘Except your uncle.’
‘Mmm. Wish I’d never mentioned him. I can see he’s not popular down here. In London, of course …’
‘People down here don’t often go to Mayfair,’ said Judy, quite sharply. ‘Your uncle Gilbert never seems to leave it if you believe what he writes in his column.’
‘I shan’t be following in his footsteps.’
‘I’m going home,’ she said. ‘Don’t take all night with the obituary. It’s helpful if you set yourself a deadline and then stick to it. Look,’ she said, pointing at the great newsroom clock, ‘it’s 8.30. Give yourself until 9.30.’
The young man ran his hands despairingly through his wavy blond hair. He was going to be a handful to train up, she could see.
On the other hand, he really was quite pleasant to look at.
‘Morning, Mr Rhys.’ It was nine o’clock and the sun’s rays were already unbearably hot through the newsroom windows. The journey into town atop the trusty Herbert, hair blowing in the breeze, had been sheer joy for Miss Dimont, but indoors the atmosphere seemed suddenly oppressive.
‘I said,