by Holly Bell
Chapter 8
Penelope Enquires
‘You do seem to enjoy your work,’ observed Thomas’s mother, pouring tea into each of two British Museum mugs. ‘Oh, I know it has boring bits but … it suits you, Thomas.’
‘Thank you, Mum.’
‘How’s your witness?’
‘Which one?’ asked Thomas.
‘That girl a few miles north of here that’s so important to you.’
‘She’s, er … fine.’
‘What’s her name? I can’t keep calling her “that girl”. It’s not polite,’ stated Penelope.
‘You don’t have to call her anything,’ Thomas replied firmly. ‘It’s an ongoing investigation, and you’re not —’
‘Yes, yes,’ she agreed, handing him his tea, ‘but, come on, she’s not on witness protection, is she? Or working for MI5? You don’t have to give me her real name, any name will do,’ cajoled his mother.
‘Of course not. Oh, all right,’ capitulated Thomas long-sufferingly. ‘Amanda. Her name is Amanda. Thanks for the tea, Mum.’
‘Amanda,’ Penelope repeated thoughtfully. ‘Latin for “loved”… and is she?’
Thomas considered. ‘Actually, yes, I rather think she is … you should have seen the villagers looking me over like a bull at the county fair when I was in the local with her! Sizing me up and most likely finding me wanting!’
His mother chuckled. Thomas continued,
‘The two who own the local coffee shop obviously dote on her. Even one of the local toddlers greeted her like a long lost friend.’
‘That speaks well of her,’ remarked Penelope, leading the way back into the sitting room. ‘Is she pretty?’
‘Well, that’s an irrelevant question!’ countered Thomas, taken off-guard by the enquiry. ‘Whether a witness is … is neither here nor there.’
‘Well, is she?’ his mother pressed home, sitting on the sofa.
‘I don’t know,’ he replied testily. ‘No … yes ….’ Why did he always think of her as she had looked when he first met her? The first two times …. ‘She’s usually in dusty overalls with clunky work boots, and her hair done up in a messy plait, and wearing glasses,’ Thomas said, taking a seat beside his mother. But then suddenly, Amanda came to his mind as he’d seen her the night of the storm …. ‘Lili Marlene,’ he murmured.
‘Lili Marlene?’ asked Penelope. ‘She looks like Marlene Dietrich?’
‘No, no, she …. more of a pixie-face, more a touch of Monroe perhaps … no, that’s perhaps … but … all I mean is, that she can look really quite ….’
‘Quite?’
‘Nice,’ he ended lamely.
‘Nice?’
‘Never mind that,’ Thomas, adjured his parent adamantly, realising he had been led down a path he had had no intention of exploring. Ever. Penelope, surprised at how much data she had managed to extract, diplomatically changed her tack.
‘What is she a witness to? A murder?’
‘It’s a cold case.’
‘Was it in the papers?’ enquired Penelope, tucking her feet under her.
‘Yes. Actually, it was the case that put me on the road to becoming a detective. I read about it on the train here. I must have been about twelve at the time.’
‘Well, if it was in the papers, surely you can remind me of it. I can work out that it was in Cornwall, if you read about it in the rag on the way here, and you’ve given me a year to go by.’
‘All right,’ agreed Thomas. ‘It was the minibus; the family whose minibus went over a cliff.’
‘I don’t remember that.’
‘All of them were killed.’
‘Well, accidents do happen,’ said Penelope philosophically.
‘But the cause was never identified,’ countered Thomas. ‘Someone reported something on the road at the time but … the family didn’t die as a result of the injuries incurred in the crash.’
‘What did they die of?’ asked Penelope, her curiosity aroused.
‘Unknown.’
‘How strange!’ Penelope mulled it over, then asked, ‘What has Amanda got to do with it?’
‘It was her family.’
‘But she survived?’
‘Yes, because she and her grandparents, who were supposed to join the party, didn’t go. The entire family was wiped out except for the three of them.’
‘Good heavens. But that was about 30 years ago. How come you’ve got the case?’
‘It was passed to me by Chief Inspector Hogarth before he retired,’ Thomas explained.
‘I see. He must have thought it was important,’ surmised Penelope.
‘I didn’t think so when he gave me the file. But since then ... I’ve begun to think …’
Penelope looked at her son carefully, and hazarded, ‘Thomas, is this somehow personal?’
‘Yes, Mum,’ he said, seeming to stare into an unseen distance, ‘I rather think it might be.’
Penelope didn’t like to see her son so perturbed and said comfortingly, ‘Well, you know you’re welcome to stay here any time, and for as long as you want to, when you’re coming and going from wherever your interviewee is.’
‘Thanks, Mum, I know,’ he said with a smile.
‘And if it means I get to see more of my son, then I’ve to thank the young lady,’ his mother announced cheerily. ‘I take it she is? Young?’
‘Mum, you’re incorrigible,’ he replied, shaking his head. ‘Thirty-something. No, not young and yet …. she’d pass for 20 when she’s presentable, and then again, there’s something child-like about her. Smart and yet with flashes of naiveté ... I suppose it comes of always having lived with her grandparents in that village …’
‘Well, you look good for 40! I wouldn’t put you a day over 30,’ stated Penelope hearteningly.
‘Thank you, mother,’ replied her son in failing accents. ‘You comfort me.’
She laughed. ‘Nonsensical boy!’
‘Would you mind if I had some coffee and drove back to Parhayle tonight? I’ve only had the one glass of wine and I’d like to be in the station on time tomorrow.’
‘Of course not, darling.’
In the silence of the car, the October night mild around him and the moonlight reassuringly bright, Thomas Trelawney wound south, anticlockwise, on the M25 London orbital highway, wondering if he should have told his mother who Amanda’s family was. He knew her well, and by tomorrow she’d have unearthed the story, found out where it was printed, and would probably have obtained a copy of the newspaper.
And she’d have a name. A name she wouldn’t like: Cardiubarn.
They were long-standing enemies and only occasional uneasy allies of the Flamgoynes. The two great Cornish houses, Flamgoyne and Cardiubarn Hall, stood staring at one another across a bleak space of Bodmin Moor and the cold grey waters of the Dozmary Pool.
‘Cardiubarn’ linked the case to Flamgoyne, and the name Flamgoyne to him. Flamgoyne, the clan that had divided his parents. Their uncanny gifts and hold over his father had rent them in two, and given Thomas, thenceforth, a home in London in the holidays and one in Cornwall during school term. No … his mother wasn’t going to like it at all.
However, Thomas had more troubling matters on his mind, and on the M3, the highway heading west to Cornwall, the memory of the cup danced in his mind. He pushed it away, insisting aloud, ‘It doesn’t matter; whatever I could do then, I can’t do now.’
But that only begged the question, ‘Why and how did I stop being able to do that?’ He was a sensitive, intuitive child … wasn’t that what Hogarth always said about him though, as an adult? How much he trusted Thomas’s intuition? He had to talk to Mike Hogarth! But his mentor and closest friend was in Spain, uncertain of when he’d return. If only he could talk to Mike … the one person who ... Mike ….
Chapter 9
Class
On Tuesday when the phone rang, and the invitation to Spain came, Thomas responded will alacrity and relief. That evening he was on the
plane flying south.
Amanda went south too, but by car and only a few miles from Sunken Madley to Muswell Hill, for her weekly dinner with Aunt Amelia.
She had fully meant to ask about the … what was it?... the apple? No … apport. Yes, the apport. But with all the excitement surrounding the affair of Horace Bottle, it went clean out her head.
After a morning’s work on the banister rail, more scraping and boiling away with toxic chemicals of the old varnish and paint, Amanda needed some fresh air. She took her lunch box, with Tempest in attendance, to the bench on the green. From there she was in sight, if not natural, certainly with binoculars, of the rector who grabbed a banana from the rectory fruit bowl and hurried out join her parishioner.
‘Hello, Amanda,’ Jane greeted her enthusiastically.
‘Hello, Rector.’
‘Shall we lunch together?’
‘Yes, of course,’ responded Amanda, politely making room for her by sliding herself and Tempest further along the bench. He inevitably chose to climb onto his human’s lap, where he had better access to the lunch box and could scan it for desirable food items.
Amanda wisely extracted a piece of smoked salmon she’d brought for him, closed the flat lid of the box and placed the food on top of it. She was hoping it would occupy her familiar long enough for her to engage in uninterrupted conversation with the rector, who would undoubtedly have some diplomatically couched cause for complaint to broach regarding the unruly feline.
She prepared herself, but unnecessarily.
‘I have news, Amanda!’ said Jane with delight. ‘Thanks to a kind recommendation, I have found dance teachers for us. Well, teacher, I should say; Victor doesn’t do much in the way of dancing now because of his limp, but he helps Majolica.’
‘Majolica?’
‘They’re Majolica and Victor Woodberry.’
‘Does he have a dance-related injury,’ asked Amanda solicitously.
‘Well, he is 82, although, you wouldn’t know it to look at him.’
‘So his wife must be —’
‘Oh, she’s considerably younger. In her 60s I’d say, but very fit and able. And experienced, of course. They actually have a dance studio built onto their house and hold private lessons and workshops there. Though, of course, that would not do for us, just adding to the expense and involving travel, although not far. But still, we want the class to be here in the village, on the spot that we’re raising money for.’
‘I agree, that does make sense,’ replied Amanda. ‘When you say not far ...?’
‘Romping!’
‘Romping-in-the-Heye?’
‘Yes, I know, just up the road. So it’s very convenient for them. And consequently they’re charging a generously low rate for the classes. As it’s for the church.’
‘How did you find out about them?’
‘Oh, word of mouth. I always think a personal recommendation carries so much more weight than something you find online, but, then again, if there are testimonials on the website, that goes a long way.’
‘Yes, I thi—’
‘Ja-aaaane! Amandaaaa!’
The two women on the bench exchanged speaking glances, then turned and rose politely at the approach of their illustrious fellow villager.
‘Hello, Miss de Havillande,’ said Amanda courteously.
‘Hello, Cynthia,’ Jane greeted her parishioner warmly.
‘Good afternoon to you both. Churchill! Heel!’ The terrier was snuffling by the pond. ‘So you found someone suitable? I trust that they are suitable. I hear some of these tango instructors are not at all to be trusted around the ladies!’
‘This is a mature married couple, Cynthia,’ replied the rector, ‘and they will be teaching a whole range of classes. And Mr Woodberry is 82 and I am quite sure will treat the ladies professionally.’
‘Woodberry?’
‘Yes. Majolica and Victor Woodberry.’
‘Hmm … now, where do I know that name?’
‘Oo-oo!’ came a voice from the other side of the lane.
‘Hello, Sylvia,’ Amanda hailed the lollipop lady. She was so called because of the disc-shaped stop-sign on a pole that she carried to stop the traffic when escorting the local school children across the road. Although not with as many summers to her credit as Miss de Havillande, at only 78, Sylvia was on her fourth husband and respected, even by the teenagers in the village, for her experience in areas generally thought to be outside Cynthia’s purview.
‘’Ello, ladies all,’ replied Sylvia, ruffling her short pale blonde curls. ‘So it’s settled then? It’s goin’ ahead? The classes?’
‘Yes, Sylvia,’ confirmed the rector joyfully. ‘I hope I may count you among our happy number?’
‘Oh, me and my Jim’ll be there like a shot. Always fond of dancin’, we was. So who’s this couple who’s going to teach us?’
‘Their name is Woodberry. Victor and Majolica.’
‘Majolica?’ asked Sylvia slowly, with creased brow and note of suspicion in her voice. ‘Where from?’
‘Romping,’ replied Jane.
‘Ha!’ replied Sylvia. ‘Well, if it’s the Majolica, I know, she wasn’t always Woodberry.’
‘You know her?’
‘Hmm. Majolica Flitton, as was. Yes, and no better than she should be!’
‘I’ve never understood what that meant,’ said Jane.
‘I think,’ said Amanda diplomatically, ‘that it means she was considered to have elastic principles in the romantic department.’
‘Very nicely put, Amanda.’ Miss de Havillande commended her.
‘So she’s back in Rompin’, is she?’ asked Sylvia, hand on hip.
‘Yes,’ replied Jane, ‘she and her husband have a house and studio there. In Suidae Row.’
‘Oo, got ’erself very nicely set up, I daresay. Well, I shall withhold my judgement,’ said Sylvia inaccurately. ‘She may have changed. She’ll be my teacher, and I shall treat ‘er with the respect that she deserves, don’t you worry now.’
‘Good. Well, I’m sure we’re all very appreciative of having teachers,’ said Jane pacifically.
‘Not but what,’ intoned Gordon French, the retired headmaster of Sunken Madley School, who had joined the ensemble largely unnoticed, ‘as I have mentioned to Amanda before, one must be cautious of strangers, people who,’ and he punctuated the words with taps of his stick, ‘are … not … Village. Especially when there is such an influx of them.’
‘Only two have actually moved in, Mr French,’ Amanda pointed out respectfully.
‘When do the classes start?’ called Dennis Hanley-Page, who had driven up and was parking his red 1959 MG sports car, hood down as it was a dry day.
‘Hello, Dennis,’ they greeted him.
‘Ladies,’ he replied touching the peak of his Harris tweed patchwork cap deferentially.
‘Saturday week,’ said the rector, in answer to his question.
‘Guy Fawkes night weekend?’
‘Yes, the Sharmas are providing fireworks for after the first class, and I expect we’ll have the bonfire on the green.’
‘No, that will be on the actual night,’ corrected Miss de Havillande.
‘Oh, very well but we can have sparklers,’ conceded the rector. ‘I thought it the best day; people are free, and it's not like Sunken Madley is a thriving centre of nightlife.’
‘There’s always Barnet. It’s so close,’ commented Amanda.
‘Seriously?’ said Joan, the matronly postlady who’d arrived unseen in the intensity of the conversation.
‘Hello, Joan,’ came the uneven chorus.
‘Hi, all. Seriously, dear? You’d go to Barnet for a Saturday night?’
‘Well, no, not actually personally,’ Amanda answered awkwardly, ‘and I’m not being a snob or anything. After all, there are some nice —’
‘The point is,’ intoned Jane, coming to her rescue, ‘that I think most people will be happy to spare a couple of hours on a Saturday to get
out of the house and learn something new.’
‘There’ll be socials, won’t there? Dances?’ asked Sylvia.
‘Yes, indeed there will,’ the rector assured her. ‘Once a month to start with. The first will be on 17th November, at the Feast of St Ursula of the Orchard, another for a Christmas Dance, and, of course, one for New Year’s Eve.’
‘It’ll be fun!’ said Joan excitedly.
‘It’ll be a lark!’ exclaimed Sylvia.
‘Very pleasant,’ agreed Cynthia.
‘Delightful,’ concurred Dennis, ‘and an opportunity to get my dinner jacket out.’
‘Excuse me, please, may I chime in?’ asked an unfamiliar feminine voice.
They opened the circle to discover the petite, wiry form of Donnatella Weathersby, the new hairdresser.
‘Ah, here’s one of our new villagers,’ said Jane, welcomingly. ‘This is Donna. She and her brother were kind enough to drop into the rectory to introduce themselves.’
‘Hello,’ said the other ladies.
‘Good afternoon, Miss,’ added Dennis and Mr French.
‘Hello, everyone,’ said the newcomer. ‘I hope it’s OK that I came up like this. Only, you’re talking about the new classes and dancing, right?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, I’m offering to do anyone’s hair on any of the dance nights for half price. Anyone in the village.’
They murmured approval. ‘That’s very neighbourly of you,’ said Jane supportively.
‘Well, I want to do something for the village,’ explained Donna, clasping her hands nervously. ‘Everyone has been really nice and welcoming, so I want to do something in return — I mean we, of course, my brother and I. You’re all such lovely people.’
This was Amanda and Dennis’s first sight of Donna. Neat, high-waisted, turned up jeans and peasant blouse proclaimed the 1940s fan. The long rippling dark hair artfully highlighted in auburn shades bore testimony to the coiffeur’s skill. It rose in a high wave curving back in a defined curl on her forehead. Brown eyes with winged eyeliner gazed frankly out at them. Rose red lips smiled beneath a Roman nose.
‘We’ll spread the word,’ said the rector warmly. ‘We’ll see you on 3rd then for the first class? You and your brother?’
