Fall of a Philanderer by Carola Dunn

he waved acknowledgement.
    The lifeboatmen shipped their oars. At that moment, Alec was hailed from behind. “Hulloo!”
    Turning with caution he saw a stout constable, very red in the face, about two thirds of the way down the cliff path. Behind him came a shortish, slim young man in tennis whites. In place of a racquet, a black bag swung jauntily in his hand, proclaiming his profession.
    At any moment, the beach was going to be covered with footprints. Alec cast a last quick glance around. The only marks he could see on the sea-smoothed sand were those of his own feet, but he wished he had his sergeant, Tom Tring, with him to make a proper survey of the area.

    â€œNo I don’t!” he muttered to himself. He must remember he was on holiday.
    He climbed down from his perch. Two of the lifeboatmen trudged towards him, ungainly in their bulky life-jackets. One carried a folding stretcher.
    â€œBloody hell,” said the other, stopping with hands on hips, “he’s a bit of a mess, an’t he.” He looked up at the towering cliff. “Long way to fall. You reckon he fell, Chief Inspector, or’d the tide bring him in?”
    â€œThat’s for the local police to decide.”
    The man with the stretcher stared at the body. “Hey, an’t that Enderby? Look at un’s hair, Jimmy.”
    â€œCould be. An’ if so ’tis, the question’s not did he fall or did he drownd, ’tis did he fall or were he pushed?”
    A third man joined them. “Pushed? Hey, that’s Enderby! If Enderby got pushed, I know who done it.”
    â€œGive over, Tom Stebbins!” said Jimmy. “I dunno why you got it in for Pete just acos he’s done well for himself and you ha’n’t.”
    â€œI say!” The voice was the same which had hallooed from the cliff path.
    They all, including Alec, turned to see the young tennis player scrambling across the rocks towards them. Close to, he looked even younger than from a distance: an unlined face with a narrow fuzz of moustache, looking as if it was barely winning the struggle for existence, and ingenuous eyes now bright with excitement.
    â€œGosh, the poor chap’s a bit of a mess, isn’t he?” Staring, he unconsciously echoed Jimmy.
    â€œAre you the police surgeon, Doctor?” Alec asked.
    â€œWell, no, not exactly.” He flushed to the roots of his dark, sleeked-back hair. “As a matter of fact, I’m not exactly quite qualified yet. Student at Guy’s, don’t you know. I’m staying with my uncle, who’s the local GP. He’s gone out to some farm at the back of beyond, so when the bobby said a doctor was needed, I said what-ho,
I’ll come along and lend a hand. Oh, the name’s Vernon, sir, Andrew Vernon.”
    â€œI see, Mr. Vernon,” Alec said grimly. “And where, may I ask, is the bobby?”
    Vernon swung round and pointed at the cliff. “Couldn’t get down the path, I’m afraid. There’s a bally great rock sticks out and he’d have gone over for sure if he’d tried to get past it. Stout sort of chap, don’t you know.”
    The lifeboatmen nudged each other, pointed at the forlorn blue-clad figure up on the path, and snickered. “Aye, he’s a stout chap, Fred Puckle is, surely,” the man with the stretcher agreed, grinning.
    For the moment at least, Alec was the only authority. He was going to have to make the decisions.
    â€œI say, sir, you’re the Scotland Yard ’tec, aren’t you?” asked the youthful not-exactly-quite doctor.
    â€œDetective Chief Inspector Fletcher of the Metropolitan Police, CID. Well, Mr. Vernon, it looks as if I’m the only police officer available and you’re the only medical man. You’d better have a look at him, and we’ll worry later about the legality of a student pronouncing death.”
    â€œGosh, may I? Wait till the fellows hear about