Bones Under The Beach Hut by Simon Brett

the Daily Mail, but he wasn't reading it. He was just looking
out to sea with an expression of infinite bleakness.
        'In a
world of his own, as ever,' said Joyce Oliver with a little chuckle, as
Gulliver tugged on his lead to get moving. 'Well, I'm sure we'll see you again,
Carole.
        We're
here most days in the summer, and particularly at the moment because we're in
the process of moving house. Place where we brought up the kids is far too big
for us now. It's a wrench leaving the house, but has to be done. Lionel can't
manage the garden any more. It's his pride and joy - the work he's put into the
landscaping and the water features you wouldn't believe. But it's too much for
him now and he hates the idea of having someone else doing it for him, so the
move does make good sense.
        'Anyway,
we're not quite out of the old house, and there's lots of work needs doing on the
new one - well, you can't really call it a house, it's only a flat - so coming
down here to the hut is quite a relief, let me tell you.'
        'Yes,
it's a lovely spot,' said Carole, providing a predictable comment on Smalting
Beach. Then with a nod to Joyce Oliver, she continued along the line of beach
huts.
    ----
        

Chapter Eight
        
        Carole
was surprised that the man in the next hut appeared to recognize her. She had
no recollection of ever having seen him before. Rising from a wooden folding
chair, he said, 'Good morning. You must be Mrs Seddon.'
        His
beach hut had not been open on her previous visit, because Carole would
certainly have remembered it if it had been. The opened doors revealed, fixed
on to their interiors and continuing on all three walls of the hut, a huge
array of naval memorabilia. Highly polished brass port and starboard lights
were attached to the inside of their appropriate doors. There were also
anchors, ancient quadrants and sextants, watercolours of ships, model ships,
ships in bottles, framed hat ribbons, wooden dead eyes, cleats, badges, flags,
boards with demonstration knots pinned on them, and green glass floats for
fishing nets. In pride of place at the back of the hut stood a brass-studded
wooden ship's wheel. Over the doors was fixed a worn brass plaque bearing the
name: The Bridge.
        Slightly
fazed by the display, Carole acknowledged that she was indeed Mrs Seddon. The
gentleman who'd asked the question was of a piece with the contents of his hut.
Probably in his early seventies, he had a full grey beard in the style of
George V. He wore a blazer with embossed brass buttons and on its breast pocket
a badge featuring a lot of woven gold wire. His dark blue tie also bore some
naval insignia.
        Offering
a hairy hand to Carole, the man identified himself. 'Good morning, my name is
Reginald Flowers and I am President of the Smalting Beach Hut Association.'
        It
was then that Carole noticed he was not alone. Sitting on another folding chair
beside him was a chubby little woman with faded red hair and thick-lensed
glasses. Open on her lap was a folded-back spiral reporter's notebook in which
she'd apparently been writing shorthand.
        'And
this is Dora,' said Reginald Flowers with the utmost condescension, 'who is my
secretary.'
        'Well,
Reginald, that's not strictly accurate,' the woman objected rather feebly.
        'What
do you mean?'
        'Well,
I'm not your secretary. I'm secretary of the Smalting Beach Hut
Association.'
        'It
comes to the same thing, Dora.'
        'No,
it doesn't really.'
        'Yes,
it does. Anyway, I need to speak to Mrs Seddon. So could you please go off and
type up those letters as soon as possible?'
        'I'll
do them this evening. I only came down this morning to have a nice day in my
beach hut.' She smiled myopically at Carole and pointed along the row. 'Mine's
the third one along. It's called Cape of Good Hope.'
        'Oh.
How nice,' said Carole.
        'And
obviously my full name isn't