FRANCIS DUNCAN
Francis Duncan is the pseudonym for William Underhill, who was born in 1918. He lived virtually all his life in Bristol and was a ‘scholarship boy’ boarder at Queen Elizabeth’s Hospital school. Due to family circumstances he was unable to go to university and started work in the Housing Department of Bristol City Council. Writing was always important to him and very early on he published articles in newspapers and magazines. His first detective story was published in 1936.
In 1938 he married Sylvia Henly. Although a conscientious objector, he served in the Royal Army Medical Corps in World War II, landing in France shortly after D-Day. After the war he trained as a teacher and spent the rest of his life in education, first as a primary school teacher and then as a lecturer in a college of further education. In the 1950s he studied for an external economics degree from London University. No mean feat with a family to support; his daughter, Kathryn, was born in 1943 and his son, Derek, in 1949.
Throughout much of this time he continued to write detective fiction from ‘sheer inner necessity’, but also to supplement a modest income. He enjoyed foreign travel, particularly to France, and took up golf on retirement. He died of a heart attack shortly after celebrating his fiftieth wedding anniversary in 1988.
ALSO BY FRANCIS DUNCAN IN THE MORDECAI TREMAINE SERIES
Murder Has a Motive Murder for Christmas
So Pretty a Problem
In at the Death
VINTAGE MURDER MYSTERIES
With the sign of a human skull upon its back and a melancholy shriek emitted when disturbed, the Death’s Head Hawkmoth has for centuries been a bringer of doom and an omen of death – which is why we chose it as the emblem for our Vintage Murder Mysteries.
Some say that its appearance in King George III’s bedchamber pushed him into madness. Others believe that should its wings extinguish a candle by night, those nearby will be cursed with blindness. Indeed its very name, Acherontia atropos, delves into the most sinister realms of Greek mythology: Acheron, the River of Pain in the underworld, and Atropos, the Fate charged with severing the thread of life.
The perfect companion, then, for our Vintage Murder Mysteries sleuths, for whom sinister occurrences are never far away and murder is always just around the corner . . .
FRANCIS DUNCAN
Behold a Fair Woman
20 Vauxhall Bridge Road, London SW1V 2SA
Vintage is part of the Penguin Random House group of companies whose addresses can be found at global.penguinrandomhouse.com
Copyright © 1954 Francis Duncan
Francis Duncan has asserted his right to be identified as the author of this Work in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
First published in Vintage in 2016
First published in Great Britain by John Long in 1954 penguin.co.uk/vintage
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
ISBN 9781784704841
Typeset in India by Thomson Digital Pvt Ltd, Noida, Delhi
Printed and bound in Great Britain by Clays Ltd, St Ives plc
Penguin Random House is committed to a sustainable future for our business, our readers and our planet. This book is made from Forest Stewardship Council® certified paper.
This is a MORDECAI TREMAINE Story
tH e MAn I n tH e DARK
The ship’s passage through the water had transformed a light breeze into a chilling wind. By the time they were running between the buoys towards the entrance to st. Julian Harbour Mordecai tremaine was wishing he had changed his mind about enjoying the sea trip and had made the quicker journey by air.
As the vessel brushed gently against the fenders of the jetty he picked up his suitcase and made his way somewhat forlornly along the crowded deck towards the gangway, feeling that it had not been the wisest of voyages for an elderly gentleman to make.
the passengers began to file ashore. edging his way along he looked up to see Janet smiling and waving at him frantically, her red dress a vivid splash of colour against the blue sky behind her. Mark was with her, a more sober figure in grey flannels but smiling and nodding a welcome no less warm.
He felt a little better. He had met the Belmores in London during the previous winter. When he had accepted their invitation to spend a few weeks with them later in the year at their island home he had been sure that they would do their best to make his stay a pleasant one.
Mark Belmore reached out to take his case as he set foot on the jetty.
‘Glad to see you, old man. Good journey?’
Relieved of his burden, tremaine pushed his pince-nez back into a safer position on the bridge of his nose.
‘Chilly towards the end, but the water was calm enough.’
‘A cup of tea will soon thaw you out,’ Janet said with a smile.
‘Car’s over here,’ Mark put in. ‘I couldn’t get any closer to the boat. It’s always a job finding a place to park in the season when the mail boats are in.’
Here on shore the wind was no more than a breeze again and the sun was beating down warmly upon them. As they walked along the crowded quayside tremaine’s spirits rose with his increasing physical comfort.
He was looking forward to his holiday. Recently he had been jaded and stale, oppressed by thoughts of a world given over to evil. He had deliberately chosen crime detection for his hobby; he knew that the thrill of the pursuit of the murderer would never lose its fascination for him. But it meant, inevitably, facing sometimes a black reaction, when he was overwhelmed by despair for humanity.
It was the penalty he was called upon to pay for his dual personality; for being both the crime investigator, even if an amateur, and the sentimental reader of Romantic Stories. now, perhaps, he could forget that there were such things as fear, and greed, and a judge putting on a square of black silk in a hushed courtroom.
He looked eagerly about him as Mark Belmore drove the big car from the jetty, past the piled-up tomato baskets outside the packing sheds, and into the narrow streets of the port. the main street straggled its way from the neighbourhood of the jetty up the slope of the hill against which the town was built. Imposing branches of familiar multiple stores stood on neighbourly terms with more modest but colourful establishments bearing names which would have aroused no comment across the water in normandy. there was a continental flavour over its cobbled, winding length; it impressed itself excitingly upon the mind despite the obviously english holiday-makers forming the greater part of the human tide which was creating an ebb and flow of movement on the pavements and between the vehicles attempting the arduous passage from one end to the other. When they reached the wide road running along the edge of the bay tremaine transferred his attention to the smaller
islands forming the far side of the shipping lane. the tide was full.
‘Admiring the view?’ Mark commented. ‘I’m afraid it isn’t so good at low tide. nothing but rocks and desolation. Most visitors prefer the south and west coasts.’
A hundred yards on they left the bay road and turned inland. Instead of blue water, broken by ships and islands, they looked upon a sea of glass from which the sun was reflected in a shimmering brilliance that dazzled the eyes.
‘tomato houses?’ tremaine asked, and Belmore nodded.
‘Yes. Most of the glass on the island is around here. Makes it look a bit untidy but it provides a living for a good many people.’
open country was confined to an occasional small field; the remaining ground was occupied by houses, some of grey stone, refaced and neatly painted but evidently belonging to the period before the island’s prosperity; and some of more modern construction. nearly all of them, however, possessed an adjoining building of glass in which tomato plants flourished in hundreds.
‘It seems to be very much the small man’s business,’ tremaine observed.
‘In the main that’s the case,’ Belmore agreed. ‘there are one or two companies owning several thousand feet of glass apiece, but most of the growing is done on a moderate scale.’
the bungalow in which the Belmores lived was situated in the north-western part of the island, in the district of Moulin d’or. the land was generally flat, and apart from one restricted area of cliff the small bays into which the coast was broken were flanked by low sand dunes. the bungalow was built upon a stretch of ground slightly higher than the surrounding area; it had an uninterrupted view of the sea.
‘You’ve an ideal spot here,’ tremaine remarked, as the car turned in through the entrance.
‘Well, I wouldn’t describe it as ideal,’ Belmore said practically. ‘the scenery is much better at the other end of the
island. But it has its advantages. We’re pretty quiet out here and the bathings’s good.’
Half an hour later tremaine had settled himself in his room, pleasantly located on the seaward side of the bungalow, and had cleaned up after his journey. the promised cup of tea had removed the last lingering chill from his bones.
‘Janet’s getting a meal,’ Mark told him. ‘Like a stroll while we’re waiting?’
t hey took the road leading to the beach. t here was still warmth in the sun’s rays and as they neared the dunes tremaine saw two figures coming from the water, now on the ebb.
‘somebody seems to have taken a late dip.’
‘they’re regulars, I think,’ Belmore said. one of the two figures approaching them raised a hand in recognition and he returned the gesture. ‘Yes, it’s Valerie and Alan Creed.’
He led the way to the sand. tremaine, following close at his heels, saw that the two people now slipping into their bathing wraps were not as young as he had at first imagined.
t he man, tall and gaunt of frame, his hair short and grizzled, was middle-aged; the woman was a little younger but no longer to be described as a girl. n or was she goodlooking. Her features were pleasant, but her figure was heavy; it was thick at the hips so that what grace she might have possessed was dulled by a hampering sluggishness of movement.
‘still keeping up the habit, I see!’ Belmore called.
‘Haven’t missed a day yet,’ the man returned.
He eyed tremaine curiously. Belmore made the introductions and the four of them walked up the beach together.
‘You’ll find the island’s a grand place for a holiday,’ Alan Creed remarked. ‘How long are you staying?’
‘I haven’t decided. It depends upon how long Mark and his wife are prepared to put up with me!’ Mark Belmore and the Creeds appeared to be on first-name terms. ‘What about you?’ tremaine added. ‘Are you a bird of passage too, or have you settled here?’
‘Valerie and I are somewhere in between,’ Creed returned. ‘We’ve taken a cottage indefinitely, so I suppose we can be classed as semi-permanent.’
tremaine glanced at Valerie Creed with a frown of concentration. It was true that the name seemed vaguely incongruous; it didn’t seem to match her heavy, middle-aged build. But there was something else about her that was eluding him.
she became aware of his scrutiny and he met her glance of enquiry with an apologetic smile.
‘I’m sorry, Mrs. Creed. I didn’t mean to be rude. I’ve a feeling I ought to know you. Could we have met somewhere before?’
He thought that briefly her face became taut and somehow watchful.
‘no, I don’t think so,’ she said quickly. ‘At least, your name isn’t familiar to me.’ she turned to her husband. ‘We haven’t met Mr. tremaine before, have we, Alan?’
there was no tension in Alan Creed’s manner. He shook his head unruffled.
‘no, my dear. I’m sure I would have remembered him.’ He raised his eyebrows in tremaine’s direction. ‘Any idea where it might have been?’ he asked.
tremaine shook his head.
‘Probably my memory playing tricks with me. You know how it is. You meet people and they seem to be familiar to you, but it’s really because they remind you of somebody else.’
‘I dare say that’s it. the trouble is that we human beings can be divided too easily into types.’
something stirred protestingly in Mordecai tremaine’s incurably sentimental soul, but before he could challenge what Creed had said the other had raised his hand to point to a narrow lane running away from the road a few yards ahead.
‘our place is just along here. Dare say we’ll be seeing something of you since you’re staying with Mark. We’re often down on the beach.’
tremaine watched them until they turned a bend in the lane. Belmore said:
‘nice couple. We rather suspect that they’re newly-weds.’
tremaine looked at him in surprise.
‘newly-weds?’
‘I thought that would draw you out.’ Belmore chuckled. ‘Didn’t you notice the looks they gave each other?’
‘It did strike me that each of them seemed to be very much wrapped up in the other. But I didn’t think of them as recently married. they seem, well, rather too old.’
‘orange blossom doesn’t always belong to youth, you know. Anyway, that’s what Janet says about them and when it comes to matters of that kind I’m prepared to allow her intuition a clear field.’
‘What does Creed do?’
‘His job? He seems to be some kind of free-lance artist. I’ve seen him do a few bits of sketching now and again and he has an artist’s drawing-board and various odds and ends that go with that sort of thing in his cottage. I don’t think they’re particularly well-off. they certainly don’t throw money around.’
‘Artists seldom can,’ tremaine commented. ‘It’s little enough of it most of them have.’
they followed the road towards the headland that marked the bay’s extremity. tremaine studied the bizarre agglomeration of grey stone and concrete that straddled the headland itself. It was an architectural hybrid. originally it had been pseudoGothic; now a yellow-painted convexity with tall windows bulged flamboyantly in concrete curves from the grey stone on the seaward side.
‘What went wrong?’ he asked.
‘that’s the Rohane hotel,’ Belmore explained. ‘Bit of an eyesore. Place was derelict for years and then somebody had all those futuristic extras stuck on in the belief that he was modernizing it. I believe he did make quite a respectable job of the inside—put in bathrooms and decent plumbing and so on—but it doesn’t do much to help the view stuck up there on the headland like that.’
‘Did the alterations attract the guests?’
‘no, they didn’t. In the end the people who’d taken it gave up the business and left the island. there’s a new man running it now. Chap named Latinam. He and his sister have taken it over.’
‘It’s still a hotel?’
‘oh yes. there are a few people staying there, but not as many as the place can hold. Latinam doesn’t seem to be worried, though. I believe he took it over more as a hobby than anything else. He doesn’t appear to be concerned about making it pay, so I imagine he isn’t in need of money.’
‘Quite a rare bird in these days,’ tremaine remarked. ‘Do you know him?’
‘We nod to each other. But we’re really like a village on our own out here. It doesn’t take long for everybody to get to know everybody else.’
He seemed reluctant to discuss Latinam further. tremaine was aware of a sudden restraint in his manner.
‘I think we’d better be turning back,’ his companion said, looking at his watch, ‘or Janet will be waiting for us.’
they reached the bungalow just as Janet was beginning to look anxiously out of the window in search of them.
When the meal was over tremaine’s offer of help in clearing away was firmly turned down.
‘If you’re sure there isn’t anything I can do,’ he remarked, ‘I think I’ll take a stroll along by the beach.’
‘Keep the old windmill as a landmark,’ Belmore told him, ‘and you won’t be in any danger of missing your way. We’re in a direct line between the windmill and the Rohane hotel.’ they had lingered over the meal and it was growing dark, but it was still possible to see the ruined windmill that had given its name to the district. tremaine made a mental note of its position relative to the house and strolled towards the beach.
there was very little wind and the sea was sighing gently against the sand somewhere in the gathering darkness beyond the dunes. no other human figure was in sight.
occasionally a car went past, and once a bus with no more than a handful of passengers caused him to step hastily up to the dunes, but otherwise it was a silent, lonely world. the darkness intensified. He realized that if he was not to lose his way, or at least have his host and hostess worrying about him, it was time to retrace his footsteps.
He shivered as he turned to face in the opposite direction. there was a chill in the air now that the sun had gone down. Ahead of him he could see two or three lights. they were close together and seemingly poised in the darkness. they puzzled him for a few moments and then he realized that they must belong to the Rohane hotel.
they appeared to be aloof, having no contact with the world; they were unfriendly to an extent that was almost sinister. the fancy was plainly absurd and he dismissed it from his mind.
He almost went past the road that led to the bungalow. Becoming suddenly aware of it he turned abruptly, and as he did so a man’s figure loomed up unexpectedly in front of him so that he was only just able to avoid a collision.
‘I beg your pardon!’ he ejaculated, startled.
With a growl in reply the other brushed roughly past him, a vague indistinct shape against the shadow of the wall that bordered the road at this point. the sound of his footsteps moved towards the beach and then stopped, as though he had stepped on to the grass verge.
not a particularly friendly individual. Unless, of course, he had been too startled to collect his thoughts.
standing there peering into the darkness tremaine was suddenly aware of a sense of foreboding. the atmosphere had become charged with evil; malign powers were abroad.
He turned and set his face determinedly towards the bungalow. It had been somebody with a grudge against the world, that was all. no need to let his imagination get out of hand just because it was dark and lonely and he was in need of a holiday.
Mark and Janet were waiting for him in the lounge when he got back and talking to them he forgot the brief incident in the gloomy lane.
It did not, in fact, recur to him again that night. But as he was undressing later something else did come back to his mind. He found himself recalling his meeting with Alan Creed and his wife, and before he fell asleep he wondered why Valerie Creed’s face had seemed familiar and where it was he had seen her before.
sAPP o I ntM ent F o R tH e MAJ o R
The following morning, whilst Mark and Janet were occupied with the daily routine of the bungalow, tremaine took the morning newspaper down to the beach and found a seat amongst the rocks.
there were few people about, although it was a sunny morning with only the lightest of breezes to fan the rock pools. two small boys were working with determination on a sand castle that was sufficiently mediaeval in design to reflect a recent school lesson on historic fortifications. A middleaged couple were settling down with the obvious intention of enjoying a placid holiday, the man with a paper-backed novel and the woman with her knitting. A stray dog was dashing in and out of the water.
tremaine was returning to his newspaper, disappointed with the lack of any human material upon which to practise his hobby of fitting backgrounds to faces, when he heard voices behind him. He glanced around and saw that four people had appeared on the dunes and were clambering towards the rocks. they chose a place not many yards away; bathing wraps were discarded and they stretched out in the sun.
It did not take him many moments to pair them off. the fair-haired girl was the complement of the wiry young man
DI
with the somewhat sharp features who was sprawling face downwards on the towel at her side; the girl with the dark hair was clearly much more interested in the fourth member of the party, the young man who seemed to be preoccupied and who was sitting with his hands clasped around his knees. He was near enough to overhear what they were saying without consciously eavesdropping. the dark girl, he learned, was Ruth, and the fair one nicola. He watched the four of them a few minutes later as they clambered over the rocks and dived in where the water was now quite deep.
supple and hard young masculine bodies, the wet gleaming on bronzed skin; the curve of an arm where feminine beauty of form moved smoothly and cleanly against the water and the sky—tremaine openly laid aside his newspaper to watch the better.
When they came back nicola pulled off her bathing cap, shaking her hair free. the sharp-featured young man, whom she had addressed as Geoffrey, picked up a beach-ring and tossed it to her. An energetic game developed as Ruth and her companion joined in.
A fifth player made an uninvited appearance. the stray dog, after circling disconsolately in the neighbourhood of the two small boys, who showed no desire to welcome him, realized that a fine new opportunity had been opened up. He came bounding hopefully along the beach.
nicola, leaping for the ring, missed it by several inches. the dog pounced upon it triumphantly.
evading the girl’s outstretched hand he headed for the rocks. tremaine found himself facing gleaming brown eyes and menacing looking jaws. He leaned forward coaxingly.
‘Good dog—here, then!’
Under the impression that he had found a sympathetic spirit the dog dropped the ring. With a quick movement tremaine snatched it away and tossed it back to the fair-haired girl.
‘thank you,’ she called. ‘I think he wants to join in.’
‘Dogs can’t resist a game on the beach,’ he returned. ‘But they’re rather a nuisance sometimes.’
Aware that his intervention was unwelcome, the dog did not try to carry off the ring again, but remained careering happily on the fringe of the game until the sight of a canine acquaintance scampering along at the far end of the beach caused him to bark joyously in recognition and rush off to join forces.
the four young people came back to the rocks to collect their wraps, nodding to tremaine as they went off.
A cheerful, pleasant little crowd, he reflected as he watched them go. Clearly on good terms with each other and making the most of their holiday. He hoped he would see more of them.
In the afternoon Janet and Mark took him for a drive around the island, but he was on the beach again shortly after breakfast on the following morning.
A spell of fine weather seemed to have settled in and it was very pleasant on the rocks with the sound of the sea as a lazy background. Later in the day it would probably be too hot for comfort, but at this hour the sun was soothing without being scorching.
the same middle-aged couple made their appearance together with the two small boys, and then the fair-haired girl and her companions came down from the dunes.
she recognized tremaine and smiled.
‘Good morning.’
tremaine adjusted his pince-nez in the habitual gesture that invariably made him seem a good deal more helpless than he was.
‘Good morning. Are you going in again today?’ she nodded, her hands deftly fitting her bathing cap into position.
‘Yes. It looks inviting, doesn’t it?’
she was not as young as he had thought. At close quarters he could see a maturity in her face that added several years to her age. With a sense of shock he glimpsed a plain gold ring on the third finger of her left hand.
All four of them, indeed, were older than his first impression had suggested. their light-heartedness, no doubt born of
the holiday atmosphere, had given them a youthfulness which had been deceptive.
Geoffrey appeared to be the senior member of the party. there was a restraint in his enjoyment, as though he felt that to be too exuberant would occasion a loss of dignity.
He wondered whether it was Geoffrey who was the husband. somehow he did not think so. the intimacy between Geoffrey and nicola did not seem to be that of the married state.
on the other hand the other young man, whom he had heard them call Ivan, was quite evidently far more concerned with the dark-haired Ruth than with the fair-haired nicola. It posed an intriguing problem.
More than that, it was challenging. He disliked being unable to put people into their correct compartments. the incident of the dog on the previous day had effected an introduction, but it was difficult to pose the right questions without being so obviously after information as to warrant a snub.
But fate came to his aid, as it often did, having apparently a warm corner for Mordecai tremaine and his insatiable curiosity. Mark came unexpectedly down to the beach.
‘thought I might find you here,’ he remarked, as he made his way over the rocks, ‘sunning yourself like an old lizard.’
‘I thought Janet intended to keep you running around until lunch-time.’
‘she relented,’ Mark said, stretching himself. ‘thought you might be feeling lonely and sent me off to console you.’ He glanced around. ‘Beach is pretty empty. It usually is, though, except at week-ends.’
the dark, serious-faced Ivan came running for the beach-ring in their direction. Mark waved a hand in greeting. tremaine straightened his pince-nez hopefully.
‘You know these young people, Mark?’
‘they’re from the Rohane hotel. they’re often down here.’
‘Do they live on the island?’
‘not all of them, but they seem to be spending quite a long while here this summer.’
tremaine sat regarding the lithe figures at the water’s edge.
‘Who’s the girl with the blonde hair? the one in the blue swim suit.’
‘that’s nicola Paston.’
‘she’s married, isn’t she?’
‘she was. she’s a widow. Her husband was killed a couple of years ago. His ’plane crashed on the way home from the Middle east.’
‘A widow?’ tremaine pursed his lips. ‘that’s bad. she looks too young to have known that much tragedy.’
‘In this current world,’ Belmore observed, ‘tragedy isn’t any respecter of age, let alone persons.’
‘I suppose you’re right. It doesn’t seem to have left a permanent scar on her, though. Being young has its compensations. It isn’t too late to start again.’
‘You mean Geoffrey Bendall?’
‘Is that his name? I’ve only heard him called Geoffrey. I’ve been trying to make out their exact relationship. At first I thought they might be engaged and then I saw her wedding ring and couldn’t fit him into the picture. Her being a widow explains it, of course.’
‘Does it?’ Belmore remarked, amused. ‘You make it sound highly intriguing. I suppose your detective instincts just can’t help coming out.’
tremaine made no comment. the truth was that it was not so much his detective instincts as his sentimental leanings that were responsible.
He was not anxious to admit as much. He had refrained from bringing any copies of Romantic Stories to the island; he had not wanted Janet and Mark to discover his weakness for that particular brand of literature.
‘What about Ruth?’ he asked. ‘the dark-haired one.’
‘she’s Ruth Latinam. sister of the chap who’s running the Rohane hotel. I mentioned him yesterday.’
‘she isn’t married, is she? I haven’t noticed her wearing a ring.’
‘no, she isn’t married. nor is Latinam. At least,’ Belmore added, ‘I suppose he isn’t. He certainly hasn’t a wife living