by Vera Morris
He was going to the Pembertons today. She shook her head. Was she becoming paranoid? Was she letting her imagination run away with her? Was she jealous? Ugh! Nothing worse than jealousy. She opened the car door.
‘Laurel!’ Stuart Elderkin puffed towards her. ‘You look nice.’
To try and cheer herself up she’d put on her favourite suede jacket, a green polo-necked sweater and new trousers. ‘Stuart, thank you. I’m going into Aldeburgh to see Nancy. Want a lift?’ She looked at her watch. ‘It’ll be getting on for lunch time when I get there, we could have a bite at the Cross Keys.’ Perhaps she could talk to Stuart about Frank, he was such a comfortable man.
‘Thanks, Laurel, but Mabel’s just said she’ll rustle up some lunch. Don’t think I better turn the offer down.’
‘No, that wouldn’t be politic! So how can I help? Something you want me to buy for you in Aldeburgh?’
Stuart leant towards her, grasping her arm. ‘Can I come with you for a hundred yards? I need to ask you a favour and I don’t want Mabel to see me speaking to you.’
Laurel’s shoulders slumped. She wasn’t sure if she wanted to be involved with another set of relationship problems. Not at this moment. Stuart’s pleading expression changed her mind. She wanted him and Mabel to be happy, she loved both of them and their engagement after Mabel nearly died, was a highlight at the time, and an expression of life after the deaths of last September. ‘Hop in. I’ll help if I can.’
She drove to Dunwich’s car park at the sea’s edge. There were a few cars there and two couples were walking towards the beach café, no doubt ready for large helpings of the famous fish and chips.
She turned to him. ‘What do you want me to do, Stuart?’
He was biting his lip. ‘Mind if I light up?’
He needed the support of his pipe. This was not going to be a simple request. ‘No, but I’ll open my window.’
It took several minutes of preparation and fiddling before he was puffing away. He hall-turned so he was facing her. ‘This is difficult for me to ask, Laurel. To tell you the truth I’m embarrassed.’
‘Will I be embarrassed too?’
‘Possibly.’
‘Is it something to do with Mabel? She’s worried as well.’
‘Is she? Worrying how to get out of our engagement?’ he said, his voice harsh and bitter.
‘No, Stuart. She thinks you’re fed up with her.’
He grimaced. ‘She’s right there. Everything I do is wrong. One minute she’s as nice as pie and the next she’s like a cat who’s had its tail pulled. Laurel, do you know why she’s like this?’
There was pain in his voice and on his face. ‘No, Stuart I don’t, neither does Dorothy. We’re all puzzled by her change towards you, but I’m convinced by what she said the other night she still cares about you and doesn’t want to lose you.’
Stuart unclenched his teeth from the stem of his pipe. Hope lit his eyes. ‘You do? What did she say?’
Laurel told him.
‘You think she really thought I’d leave her for Ann Fenner?’
‘She was upset to hear not only were you having a meal with her, but you looked as though you were enjoying yourself.’
Stuart leant back and thoughtfully took a few more puffs. ‘If she feels jealous then she must still fancy me, even if she doesn’t love me.’
She patted his free hand. ‘I think she loves you.’
‘Laurel, will you try and find out what’s wrong? Why she avoids being alone with me? Why she suddenly says nasty things? If there’s something I can do, something I can change to make it all right, I’ll do it.’ He glared at his pipe. ‘I’ll even give up this, if that’s the problem. Will you do that for me?’
She didn’t think it would be as easy as that. ‘Yes, I will, Stuart. Shall I let Mabel know I’m speaking for you?’
He shook his head, like an old grizzly woken from its winter slumber. ‘No, not at first, only if you have to. I’ll leave it to your judgement.’
‘Supposing I make it worse? That could happen, Stuart.’
He pushed out his lower lip and let out a stream of smoke. ‘I won’t blame you. We can’t go on like this. Something’s got to happen, one way or another. I can’t stand it and I don’t think it’s doing our detective agency any good either.’
Laurel silently agreed.
‘I’d better get back. Could you drop me off before we get to the house?’
She smiled at him. She wasn’t looking forward to talking to Mabel.
Laurel found a parking spot in Aldeburgh High Street, nearly opposite Nancy’s cottage. It was twelve-thirty and the town was busy with Saturday shoppers and people out for lunch, either queuing for fish and chips or entering the several cafés and restaurants. She crossed the wide street and knocked on Nancy’s door. No reply. She waited a few minutes and knocked again.
An elderly woman pushing a shopping trolley stopped beside her. ‘Mrs Wintle isn’t in.’
‘I’ll knock again, just to make sure, ‘Laurel replied.
‘I said she isn’t in.’ The woman’s cultivated voice implied Laurel was an idiot. ‘Her son’s taken her out for luncheon. I doubt she’ll be able to eat anything after what happened to her brother.’ She took a key from her pocket and opened the door of the house next to Nancy’s. ‘It’s no good you standing there. Have you a card?’
‘A card?’
‘A calling card!’
Blimey, an Aldeburgh resident of the first water. This was 1971 not 1871. ‘No.’
‘Shall I inform Mrs Wintle you called?’
Laurel admitted defeat. ‘No, thank you. I’ll call on her later.’
The woman gave a nod of her head worthy of the old Queen Mary, and entered her cottage pulling her shopping trolley behind her.
Laurel walked away, irritated and feeling at a loose end. What should she do now? It was time to eat and she did feel hungry; the seductive smells from Smith’s Bakery of fresh bread, fruited scones and savoury Cornish pasties made her stomach clench, not to mention the smells from the open bags of fish and chips as people walked past. She could go back to Greyfriars. She hated feeling like this: indecisive and in need of some company; she liked to be independent and in charge of her life. She decided to go back to Greyfriars.
As she was about to cross the road to her car she heard her name called.
‘Laurel, Miss Bowman.’
It was Mr Tucker, the gallery owner. He was outside his shop, waving a newspaper at her. She walked towards him. ‘Hello, Mr Tucker, we meet again.’
‘Good to see you. Are you looking for Nancy? She’s out with her son.’
Laurel smiled. ‘Yes, I know. Everyone seems to be keeping an eye on her. The woman who lives next door to her told me.’
Tucker giggled. ‘Miss Evans, or as she is known, The Lady Evans. I expect she gave you short shrift?’
‘I was berated for not having a calling card.’
‘Why don’t you come in?’ He pointed to the gallery. ‘I just nipped out for a paper.’ He paused. ‘Or have you plans for lunch?’
‘No, I was wondering what to do, I think I’ll go back to Greyfriars.’
‘Ah, your base. May I offer you lunch? I need to let Kelvin know I’ll be out for an hour, then we can go and enjoy ourselves. What do you say?’
Such a round, jolly man, smiling at her, obviously pleased to see her again. ‘That’s a lovely idea, Mr Tucker. I accept.’
‘Ben, please. Let’s go in and I’ll introduce you to my assistant, Kelvin. He’s a friend as well as an employee, been with me for ages. I’ve a gallery in London, and we box and cox the two places between us.’ He opened the glass-panelled door and ushered her in. A bell tinkled and a tall man came out of the back showroom. He was younger than Ben, in his late forties, Laurel guessed, well built, with broad shoulders. He held himself well, and moved gracefully. They were a contrast: roly-poly Ben and tall, muscular Kelvin.
‘Laurel, this is Kelvin Hagar, my right-ha
nd man. Kelvin, Miss Laurel Bowman; I told you how quickly she acted when there was an emergency at the meeting last night.’
Kelvin shook her hand. His grip was firm, brief, and strong. He was a couple of inches taller than her, so about six one or two, with a long, narrow face, dark eyes and well-defined eyebrows.
‘Very pleased to meet you, Miss Bowman.’ His speech was clipped, his accent neutral.
‘Laurel, I need to have a few words with Kelvin in the office. Won’t be long.’
They went into the back showroom and a door opened and closed. She looked round. The front showroom was filled with light from the wide windows on both sides of the door, the shelves held displays of paintings and sculpture and the walls of the room were hung with larger pictures. By a pale wood desk a gilt easel displayed a beautiful painting of a Venetian scene. Each picture and sculpture had a tastefully written card giving the artist’s name, the date it was done, the medium used, and the price. Some of the works were priced at several thousand pounds. She didn’t know any of the artists, and the dates were all after 1930. Benjamin Tucker must be a rich man to be able to buy so many paintings and to also have a gallery in London. She must find out where it was.
Tucker came into the room.
‘There are some lovely paintings, Ben. I see most of them are modern; I’m afraid I don’t know any of the artists.’
He beamed at her. ‘I’m glad you like them. I enjoy discovering new artists and setting them on their journey. It’s much more exciting than selling the work of dead men. And much more profitable when one of your artists takes off.’
‘You said you have a gallery in London. Where is it?’
‘Old Bond Street.’
‘Gosh, that’s a posh address. Why do you need a gallery here? I’d have thought you’re much more likely to make sales in London than Aldeburgh.’
Ben tapped his nose. ‘There are a lot of rich people in this neck of the woods, and many of them love art and music. It’s surprising the number of holidaymakers who buy art as a memento of their time in Aldeburgh, especially those who come for the music festivals.’
She was changing her opinion of Ben Tucker; he wasn’t the kindly, slightly bumbling owner of a small art gallery, he was a rich art dealer with many connections in the art world and moneyed, and probably influential, customers. She wondered what he would make of David’s work. Pity she couldn’t show him the drawings, but as they weren’t supposed to have them that wasn’t possible. Or was it? Would there be any point in getting his opinion? She’d ask Frank.
‘Interrogation over, Laurel?’ Ben chuckled.
Laurel put a hand to her face. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to … I was interested. I’ve never met an art dealer before.’
Hagar came into the room.
‘We’re off to have lunch, Kelvin,’ Ben said. ‘I’ll be back in about an hour.’ He looked at Laurel. ‘Possibly two.’
‘Very well, Mr Tucker. Then perhaps we can discuss the best way of dealing with our little problem. I have a few ideas.’
Ben smiled. ‘Kelvin always solves my problems. Such a good organiser. It’s your army training, Kelvin, isn’t it?’
Laurel looked from one to the other. It was as though the conversation had a secret code, as though they were talking in some sort of shorthand. ‘Were you in the army long, Mr Hagar?’ she asked.
‘The army was my home. Then Mr Tucker employed me. Now my first loyalty is to Mr Tucker.’
What a strange answer. A bit of a fanatic. His face hadn’t changed during his answer, there was no smile lighting up his narrow face with its long, bony nose and pointed chin. He hadn’t answered the question.
‘Which regiment were you in? Let me guess … Special Forces? A commando?’ Why had she said that? It was something about the way he moved, his height and strength.
Hagar’s face darkened. He didn’t reply but shot a look at Ben.
‘You’ll have to remember Miss Bowman is a detective, Kelvin. It’s in her nature to ask questions.’
‘I’m sorry, Mr Hagar, I didn’t mean to embarrass you. Please forgive me.’
He shot her a baleful look. ‘I’m afraid I’m not very good at small talk, Miss Bowman.’
The answer was innocuous but she sensed his dislike of her.
Ben took her arm. ‘Lunch calls. Goodbye, Kelvin.’
‘Goodbye, Mr Tucker, Miss Bowman,’ Hagar said as he opened the door of the gallery.
It was a relief to step into the busy High Street; she’d taken a dislike to Mr Hagar and she was sure the feeling was mutual.
Laurel had an excellent lunch with Ben at a fish restaurant, where she’d had to refuse more than one glass of Muscadet. After lunch she’d walked to Thorpeness and stood by the Mere watching couples and families row over the shallow waters. Now she was able to think of Angela without guilt or anger.
She watched the boats skim over the water, the swans and ducks gathering at the edge of the mere in search of food. She smiled as she thought of her and Angela as children, holidaying with Mum and Dad in a rented house at Thorpeness. How happy they’d been, how innocent.
When she arrived back at Greyfriars the day was nearly over, the sun was low in the sky, painting the clouds with mackerel colours. There were no other cars in the drive. She was glad, as she didn’t want to talk to anyone at the moment; she wanted to preserve her inner peace. She decided she’d have a cup of tea and then read in her bedroom.
There was a light in the kitchen. Mabel must be by herself. She remembered her promise to Stuart. She wasn’t in the mood for a heart to heart but she might not get an opportunity like this for some time. Better get on with it before someone came back.
She pushed open the kitchen door. Mabel was sitting at the table nursing a mug of tea; there was a row of scones cooling on a wire rack. She looked up.
‘Thought I heard a car. Did you see Nancy?’
Laurel sat down, poured herself a cup and told Mabel what had happened in Aldeburgh.
‘I know that Miss Evans. She doesn’t half give herself airs, I don’t know why, ’cause she comes from a working-class family from Leiston. She got a scholarship to that private school near Southwold, went to Oxford or somewhere, and taught at a posh school. I can remember when her family hadn’t two halfpennies to rub together, and her dad was out of work. Doesn’t do to forget your roots, does it?’
‘No, it doesn’t.’ Laurel smiled and touched one of the scones. ‘Still too warm to eat, pity. Although I had a good lunch.’ She told Mabel about Ben Tucker and meeting Kelvin Hager.
‘He’s been with Mr Tucker ever since he started the gallery. Keeps himself to himself. Doesn’t mix like Ben Tucker does.’
‘He said he was in the army. Do you any more about him, Mabel?’
She frowned. ‘Why the interest? Or is it your natural nosiness?’
‘’Fraid so. He’s such a contrast to Ben, I can’t imagine them working together. Does Ben always stop at a hotel when he’s in Aldeburgh? It must get expensive.’
Mabel got up and opened a cupboard door and took out a cake tin. ‘No, he’s got a house somewhere not too far away, not sure where. Sometimes he has house parties at the weekend or during the Festival. He brings people down from London, so I’m told. Likes a bit of life, does Ben Tucker.’ She felt the scones. ‘You’re right, not quite cool enough to store.’ She looked at Laurel. ‘Do you ever wish you weren’t so tall? I know I’ve difficulty in getting clothes and shoes to fit, and you’re a good few inches taller.’
‘What’s brought this on, Mabel? Are you thinking about a new wardrobe?’
Mabel plucked at the sleeve of her green jumper. ‘Perhaps I should smarten up a bit. That Ann Fenner always looks well dressed and groomed.’
‘I bet she’s not such a good cook.’
Mabel frowned. ‘I think she could hold her own.’
Laurel decided to try and cheer her up. ‘Talking about my height, did I ever tell you about the time my mum took me to the doctors wh
en I was a child because she was worried how tall I’d grown; I was seven?’
Mabel sat up. ‘No.’
‘Yes. I couldn’t understand why she was taking me, “I’m not ill,” I said. “I beat all the girls at skipping at playtime.”
‘My mum said to the doctor, “Look at her, Doctor, there must be something wrong.”
‘The doctor looked at me. “How old is she? Twelve?”
‘“There!” said Mum, “She’s seven!”
‘The doctor measured my height, then went to his desk and did some calculations. I thought if I was twelve I could stay up and watch Match of the Day.’
Mabel roared.
‘The doctor said, “If she keeps growing at this rate she’ll be six feet, give or take an inch by the time she’s sixteen, unless puberty comes early.”
“Who’s puberty?” I asked.
The doctor laughed and my Mum nearly fainted.’
Mabel was laughing so much she was holding her sides. ‘He wasn’t far off, was he?’
‘Very accurate. I’ve never minded being taller than average. If any boy made rude remarks I just gave him a quick punch or a kick. Later I realised not many men would fall for a six-footer; actually, I’m only five feet eleven. Yes, there are disadvantages, and it can be difficult to find clothes and shoes that fit me.’
‘Have you told Frank that story?’ Mabel was wiping her eyes with a tea towel.
Laurel shook her head. ‘Perhaps I will, one day.’ She wasn’t sure how to start asking about what was wrong between her and Stuart, but if she left it any longer someone was bound to come back in the middle of their conversation – if they got that far. Mabel looked relaxed; she decided to risk it and hoped Mabel wouldn’t take offence. She’d tell the truth and not go round in circles.
