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  Contents

  Introduction

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  About the Author

  Introduction

  BY ROBERT BARNARD

  Mystery readers who have never encountered Josephine Tey are in for a delicious treat. Tey belonged to the Golden Age of British crime writing (roughly speaking, 1920-1950), and her place in the pantheon of mystery writers is unassailable.

  Josephine Tey (1896 or ’97-1952) is a writer who lives by her works alone. Nobody seems to know anything much about her life, in spite of her successful career in the theater, and nobody seems to care. The steady and sustained sale of her novels in the forty-odd years since her death is due to the books themselves, which have proved to have an enduring appeal. And I would hazard the guess that her readers’ attitude toward her is different from their attitude toward other classic crime writers: they regard her with love. They give to their favorite Tey novel what they once gave to their favorite books of childhood, to The Wind in the Willows, Little Women, or whatever: unconditional enthusiasm.

  This strong bond between novelist and reader is based on trust—trust in someone who is not only a first-rate storyteller but one who is not content with a formula. Tey, in her best books, seeks to tell different sorts of story, in different ways. This marks her off from the usual purveyors of puzzle-plots, brilliant though they often are. Indeed, in her more straightforward detective stories Josephine Tey often reveals a sort of impatience with the rules and conventions of the whodunit. In A Shilling for Candles, for example, two of the three plot strands are unraveled with information that is either not given readers at the time the detective gets it, or only revealed just before the unmasking of the criminal. She was, in other words, not interested enough in that kind of game, and preferred to play other, more varied sports.

  Three of her novels occupy that hinterland—often uneasy, but not in her hands—between the crime novel and the “novel proper.” They all have crime at their heart, but they are as far as possible from the “body in the library” formula. Impersonation has been at the heart of many detective stories, but it has seldom carried the emotional charge of Brat Farrar, and our sympathies are never in a mere puzzle so skillfully and so surprisingly manipulated. The Daughter of Time is an almost unrepeatable success (a historical mystery reanimated and investigated by present-day inquirers), and it has aroused a whole new interest in what previously seemed a dusty and rather sordid period of English history—the reign of King Richard III and the murder of the Princes in the Tower. The Franchise Affair also has a basis in fact (an eighteenth-century case in which a maid charged her employers with abduction and mistreatment), but in her hands it becomes a sort of parable of the middle class at bay.

  Coming at the tail end of the Golden Age of crime fiction, Tey does not escape some of the less attractive attitudes of her contemporaries: anti-Semitism, contempt for the working class, a deep uneasiness about any enthusiasm (for example Scottish nationalism) that, to her, smacks of crankiness. If Agatha Christie’s “Anthony Astor” in Three Act Tragedy is indeed a hit at Tey then Christie targets Tey’s weaknesses squarely when she talks about “her spiritual home—a boardinghouse in Bournemouth,” with the implication of dreary respectability and conventionality.

  But that is to seize on the inessentials and to ignore the essence: Josephine Tey’s brilliant storytelling: her varied, loving characterization; above all, her control of reader sympathies. These are evident in all her novels, whether whodunits or more unconventional structures. If Ngaio Marsh or Christie had died as young as Tey we would have a good idea of what they could have gone on writing. We can guess that Tey would have written several more whodunits, but what she would have written is beyond our guesswork. That in itself is her best tribute.

  ROBERT BARNARD is the author of more than thirty crime novels, including, most recently, Bad Samaritan and a collection of short stories, The Habit of Widowhood. A seven-time Edgar nominee and winner of the Anthony, Agatha, Macavity, and Nero Wolfe awards, he lives in Leeds, England.

  Chapter 1

  It was a little after seven on a summer morning, and William Potticary was taking his accustomed way over the short down grass of the cliff-top. Beyond his elbow, two hundred feet below, lay the Channel, very still and shining, like a milky opal. All around him hung the bright air, empty as yet of larks. In all the sunlit world no sound except for the screaming of some seagulls on the distant beach; no human activity except for the small lonely figure of Potticary himself, square and dark and uncompromising. A million dewdrops sparkling on the virgin grass suggested a world new—come from its Creator’s hand. Not to Potticary, of course. What the dew suggested to Potticary was that the ground fog of the early hours had not begun to disperse until well after sunrise. His subconscious noted the fact and tucked it away, while his conscious mind debated whether, having raised an appetite for breakfast, he should turn at the Gap and go back to the Coastguard Station, or whether, in view of the fineness of the morning, he should walk into Westover for the morning paper, and so hear about the latest murder two hours earlier than he would otherwise. Of course, what with wireless, the edge was off the morning paper, as you might say. But it was an objective. War or peace, a man had to have an objective. You couldn’t go into Westover just to look at the front. And going back to breakfast with the paper under your arm made you feel fine, somehow. Yes, perhaps he would walk into the town.

  The pace of his black, square-toed boots quickened slightly, their shining surface winking in the sunlight. Proper service, these boots were. One might have thought that Potticary, having spent his best years in brushing his boots to order, would have asserted his individuality, or expressed his personality, or otherwise shaken the dust of a meaningless discipline off his feet by leaving the dust on his boots. But no, Potticary, poor fool, brushed his boots for love of it. He probably had a slave mentality, but had never read enough for it to worry him. As for expressing one’s personality, if you described the symptoms to him he would, of course, recognize them. But not by name. In the Service they call that “contrariness.”

  A seagull flashed suddenly above the cliff-top, and dropped screaming from sight to join its wheeling comrades below. A dreadful row these gulls were making. Potticary moved over to the cliff edge to see what jetsam the tide, now beginning to ebb, had left for them to quarrel over.

  The white line of the gently creaming surf was broken by a patch of verdigris green. A bit of cloth. Baize, or something. Funny it should stay so bright a color after being in the water so—

  Potticary’s blue eyes widened suddenly, his body becoming strangely still. Then the square black boots began to run. Thud, thud, thud, on the thick turf,
like a heart beating. The Gap was two hundred yards away, but Potticary’s time would not have disgraced a track performer. He clattered down the rough steps hewn in the chalk of the Gap, gasping; indignation welling through his excitement. That was what came of going into cold water before breakfast! Lunacy, so help him. Spoiling other people’s breakfasts, too. Schaefer’s best, except where ribs broken. Not likely to be ribs broken. Perhaps only a faint after all. Assure the patient in a loud voice that he is safe. Her arms and legs were as brown as the sand. That was why he had thought the green thing a piece of cloth. Lunacy, so help him. Who wanted cold water in the dawn unless they had to swim for it? He’d had to swim for it in his time. In that Red Sea port. Taking in a landing party to help the Arabs. Though why anyone wanted to help the lousy bastards—that was the time to swim. When you had to. Orange juice and thin toast, too. No stamina. Lunacy, so help him.

  It was difficult going on the beach. The large white pebbles slid maliciously under his feet, and the rare patches of sand, being about tide level, were soft and yielding. But presently he was within the cloud of gulls, enveloped by their beating wings and their wild crying.

  There was no need for Schaefer’s, nor for any other method. He saw that at a glance. The girl was past all help. And Potticary, who had picked bodies unemotionally from the Red Sea surf, was strangely moved. It was all wrong that someone so young should be lying there when all the world was waking up to a brilliant day; when so much of life lay in front of her. A pretty girl, too, she must have been. Her hair had a dyed look, but the rest of her was all right.

  A wave washed over her feet and sucked itself away, derisively, through the scarlet-tipped toes. Potticary, although the tide in another minute would be yards away, pulled the inanimate heap a little higher up the beach, beyond reach of the sea’s impudence.

  Then his mind turned to telephones. He looked around for some garment which the girl might have left behind when she went in to swim. But there seemed to be nothing. Perhaps she had left whatever she was wearing below high-water level and the tide had taken it. Or perhaps it wasn’t here that she had gone into the water. Anyhow, there was nothing now with which to cover her body, and Potticary turned away and began his hurried plodding along the beach again, and so back to the Coastguard Station and the nearest telephone.

  “Body on the beach,” he said to Bill Gunter as he took the receiver from the hook and called the police.

  Bill clicked his tongue against his front teeth, and jerked his head back. A gesture which expressed with eloquence and economy the tiresomeness of circumstances, the unreasonableness of human beings who get themselves drowned, and his own satisfaction in expecting the worst of life and being right. “If they want to commit suicide,” he said in his subterranean voice, “why do they have to pick on us? Isn’t there the whole of the south coast?”

  “Not a suicide,” Potticary gasped in the intervals of hulloing.

  Bill took no notice of him. “Just because the fare to the south coast is more than to here! You’d think when a fellow was tired of life he’d stop being mean about the fare and bump himself off in style. But no! They take the cheapest ticket they can get and strew themselves over our doorstep!”

  “Beachy Head get a lot,” gasped the fair-minded Potticary. “Not a suicide, anyhow.”

  “Course it’s a suicide. What do we have cliffs for? Bulwark of England? No. Just as a convenience to suicides. That makes four this year. And there’ll be more when they get their income tax demands.”

  He paused, his ear caught by what Potticary was saying.

  “—a girl. Well, a woman. In a bright green bathing dress.” (Potticary belonged to a generation which did not know swimsuits.) “Just south of the Gap. ’Bout a hundred yards. No, no one there. I had to come away to telephone. But I’m going back right away. Yes, I’ll meet you there. Oh, hullo, Sergeant, is that you? Yes, not the best beginning of a day, but we’re getting used to it. Oh, no, just a bathing fatality. Ambulance? Oh, yes, you can bring it practically to the Gap. The track goes off the main Westover road just past the third milestone, and finishes in those trees just inland from the Gap. All right, I’ll be seeing you.”

  “How can you tell it’s just a bathing fatality,” Bill said.

  “She had a bathing dress on, didn’t you hear?”

  “Nothing to hinder her putting on a bathing dress to throw herself into the water. Make it look like accident.”

  “You can’t throw yourself into the water this time of year. You land on the beach. And there isn’t any doubt what you’ve done.”

  “Might have walked into the water till she drowned,” said Bill, who was a last-ditcher by nature.

  “Ye’? Might have died of an overdose of bull’s-eyes,” said Potticary, who approved of last-ditchery in Arabia but found it boring to live with.

  Chapter 2

  They stood around the body in a solemn little group: Potticary, Bill, the sergeant, a constable, and the two ambulance men. The younger ambulance man was worried about his stomach, and the possibility of its disgracing him, but the others had nothing but business in their minds.

  “Know her?” the sergeant asked.

  “No,” said Potticary. “Never seen her before.”

  None of them had seen her before.

  “Can’t be from Westover. No one would come out from town with a perfectly good beach at their doors. Must have come from inland somewhere.”

  “Maybe she went into the water at Westover and was washed up here,” the constable suggested.

  “Not time for that,” Potticary objected. “She hadn’t been that long in the water. Must have been drowned hereabouts.”

  “Then how did she get here?” the sergeant asked.

  “By car, of course,” Bill said.

  “And where is the car now?”

  “Where everyone leaves their car: where the track ends at the trees.”

  “Yes?” said the sergeant. “Well, there’s no car there.”

  The ambulance men agreed with him. They had come up that way with the police—the ambulance was waiting there now—but there was no sign of any other car.

  “That’s funny,” Potticary said. “There’s nowhere near enough to be inside walking distance. Not at this time in the morning.”

  “Shouldn’t think she’d walk anyhow,” the older ambulance man observed. “Expensive,” he added, as they seemed to question him.

  They considered the body for a moment in silence. Yes, the ambulance man was right; it was a body expensively cared for.

  “And where are her clothes, anyhow?” The sergeant was worried.

  Potticary explained his theory about the clothes; that she had left them below high-water mark and that they were now somewhere at sea.

  “Yes, that’s possible,” said the sergeant. “But how did she get here?”

  “Funny she should be bathing alone, isn’t it?” ventured the young ambulance man, trying out his stomach.

  “Nothing’s funny, nowadays,” Bill rumbled. “It’s a wonder she wasn’t playing jumping off the cliff with a glider. Swimming on an empty stomach, all alone, is just too ordinary. The young fools make me tired.”

  “Is that a bracelet around her ankle, or what?” the constable asked.

  Yes, it was a bracelet. A chain of platinum links. Curious links, they were. Each one shaped like a C.

  “Well,” the sergeant straightened himself, “I suppose there’s nothing to be done but to remove the body to the mortuary, and then find out who she is. Judging by appearances that shouldn’t be difficult. Nothing ‘lost, stolen or strayed’ about that one.”

  “No,” agreed the ambulance man. “The butler is probably telephoning the station now in great agitation.”

  “Yes.” The sergeant was thoughtful. “I still wonder how she came here, and what—”

  His eyes had lifted to the cliff face, and he paused.

  “So! We have company!” he said.

  They turned to see a man’s
figure on the cliff-top at the Gap. He was standing in an attitude of intense eagerness, watching them. As they turned towards him he did a swift right-about and disappeared.

  “A bit early for strollers,” the sergeant said. “And what’s he running away for? We’d better have a talk with him.”

  But before he and the constable had moved more than a pace or two it became evident that the man, far from running away, had been merely making for the entrance to the Gap. His thin dark figure shot now from the mouth of the Gap and came towards them at a shambling run, slipping and stumbling, and giving the little group watching his advent an impression of craziness. They could hear the breath panting through his open mouth as he drew near, although the distance from the Gap was not long and he was young.

  He stumbled into their compact circle without looking at them, pushing aside the two policemen who had unconsciously interposed their bulk between him and the body.

  “Oh, yes, it is! Oh, it is, it is!” he cried, and without warning sat down and burst into loud tears.

  Six flabbergasted men watched him in silence for a moment. Then the sergeant patted him kindly on the back and said, idiotically, “It’s all right, son!”

  But the young man only rocked himself to and fro and wept the more.

  “Come on, come on,” rallied the constable, coaxing. (Really, a dreadful exhibition on a nice bright morning.) “That won’t do anyone any good, you know. Best pull yourself together—sir,” he added, noting the quality of the handkerchief which the young man had produced.

  “A relation of yours?” the sergeant inquired, his voice suitably modulated from its former businesslike pitch.

  The young man shook his head.

  “Oh, just a friend?”

  “She was so good to me, so good!”

  “Well, at least you’ll be able to help us. We were beginning to wonder about her. You can tell us who she is.”

  “She’s my—hostess.”

  “Yes, but I meant, what is her name?”