A Conspiracy of Aunts

by Sally Spencer

  It was towards the end of November that I finally had a visit from my old friend, Les Fliques. I’d spent an uneventful day in the Owen Glendower High School – an institution which was a tasteful blend of Victorian ostentation and 1970s cheese-paring utilitarianism – and was just leaving for home when I noticed him standing by the gate.

  He was dressed in civilian clothes, and though the air was cold enough to freeze the tail-feathers off a sparrow, he was sucking a stick of Llawesuohtihs souvenir rock.

  ‘Just checking the name really does go all the way through, as the manufacturer claims it does,’ he said, by way of a greeting.

  ‘You could always just break it in two,’ I suggested.

  ‘That’s not my way, laddie, and you know it,’ Fliques replied. ‘Slow but sure, that’s my method – slow but sure.’

  ‘Are you down here on holiday, Sergeant Fliques?’ I asked.

  ‘It’s Inspector Fliques now,’ he said. ‘And no, I’m not on holiday. I don’t take holidays. But,’ he conceded, ‘I am on leave.’

  ‘And what brings you down to Llawesuohtihs, Inspector?’ I asked.

  ‘You, laddie,’ Fliques told me. ‘I’m checking up on you.’

  ‘There’s nothing to check up on. Even if I wanted to misbehave, there’s no way to do it in a dump like this.’

  Fliques chuckled. ‘Don’t underestimate yourself. I’ve come to have great respect for you over the years. What you did to your Auntie Jacqueline was smart enough, but that stroke with your Auntie Peggy was bloody brilliant.’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, Inspector,’ I said.

  Fliques shook his head, wonderingly. ‘Of course you don’t. Then let me explain it. It’s Saturday morning, and I get an anonymous call from a supposed Irishman about some jewellery hidden in Cuddles Farm – your Irish accent, by the way, is bloody awful. Now I’ve had some trouble with Cuddles Farm, because I’ve already pulled one search warrant, and come up with nothing. Besides, somebody’s putting pressure on the people from the top floor to take me off the case.’

  ‘Really?’ I said, thinking that did he but realise it, the somebody in question was not a mile from where we were standing.

  ‘Really,’ Fliques repeated. ‘Anyway, the upshot is that if I’m going to get another warrant, I need some very solid information. And the caller knows that as well. So what does he do?’

  ‘I’ve no idea, Inspector.’

  ‘He gives me such a detailed description of the goods that I can say for certain they’ve been nicked from a big house in Cheadle Hulme. And that’s enough to convince the magistrate. Still following me, are you?’

  ‘Yes, Inspector.’

  ‘You leave it for a while before ringing your auntie—’

  ‘Not me.’

  ‘All right, have it your own way. The anonymous caller leaves it a while before ringing your auntie. And what does he say when she picks up the phone?’

  ‘I’ve not a clue.’

  ‘“The cops are coming, Auntie,” he says. “They should be there any minute.” Now Auntie knows we’ll have no trouble finding the jewels where they’re hidden at the moment. So what does she do? She looks around for a convenient moggie.’

  ‘A convenient moggie?’

  ‘So she can stick the jewels down its throat – as you well know. Anyway, there are no cats to be found – they’re all locked up in the barn, and she hasn’t got a key. “What am I going to do?” she asks herself in a panic, because – you must remember, Bobby – she’s been told I’ll be arriving any minute. “I’ll hide them among the weeds in the vegetable garden,” she thinks. No, that won’t work because the police are bound to go over the whole place with a fine-toothed comb. “I’ll flush them down the bog,” she decides. Pity to throw so much money down the toilet, but it’s better than being nicked. And then she remembers – she’s got a septic tank. “Oh, why didn’t I have mains drainage installed when I had the chance,” she moans. Because she knows, you see, that I’ll sift through a ton of shit if I have to. So what choices does she have left? She could always give herself up, but knowing your auntie like we do, that doesn’t seem likely, does it?’

  I tried to picture Aunt Peggy holding out her hands for the cuffs.

  ‘No,’ I agreed, ‘that doesn’t seem likely.’

  ‘Not Diamond Peggy,’ Fliques said. ‘That wasn’t her way at all. So in the end, as you well knew – as you’d planned it – there was only one thing she could do, wasn’t there? “It worked with the cats,” she thinks as she pops the first ring in her mouth, “so it’s worth trying myself.” Down goes one ring, then another, and finally a third. But the brooch doesn’t go down – the brooch gets stuck. But you couldn’t have known that for certain, Bobby. You couldn’t have been sure she’d have choked to death by the time we arrived.’

  No, but at the very least, I’d have made sure that she got a taste of her own medicine before she was arrested.

  ‘Even if you could prove any of this, Auntie Peggy still died by her own hand,’ I told Fliques.

  ‘And your Auntie Jacqueline died by the hand of her lover. I know.’ Fliques took another suck on his rock, and examined the result. The name of the town was still clearly visible. ‘Can’t see any grounds here for prosecution under the Trade Descriptions Act,’ he said disappointedly.

  ‘Can I go now, Inspector?’ I asked.

  ‘In a minute,’ Fliques said. ‘You are aware that Cuddles Farm is being run as a proper cat sanctuary now?’

  ‘Yes, as a matter of fact, I am.’

  ‘The new owner is a Mrs Cynthia Harrap. Did you know that?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Are you acquainted with the lady, by any chance?’

  ‘We met a few times,’ I said cautiously.

  Fliques laughed. ‘Oh no, Bobby, I’m not going let you get away with that. Your relationship was much more intimate than is implied by “met a few times”.’

  How did he know? I wondered as my stomach did somersaults. How did he bloody know?

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ I protested.

  ‘She was your bridge partner, wasn’t she, so you must have spent quite a lot of time together.’

  ‘Yes, we did,’ I admitted.

  ‘So what made her take over the farm?’

  ‘I think she decided she needed a new hobby,’ I said.

  Fliques’ eyes narrowed. ‘And what exactly happened to her old hobby?’ he demanded.

  ‘He moved away to darkest Wales,’ I thought.

  But aloud, I said, ‘She’d filled up one stamp album, and didn’t see the point in buying another one.’

  ‘Yes, it’s true what they say,’ Fliques mused, ‘philately will get you nowhere.’

  ‘You just made a joke, Inspector,’ I said.

  ‘Yes, I didn’t, didn’t I?’ Les Fliques said, sounding almost as surprised as I was. He took a final – possibly contemplative – lick of his stick of rock before speaking again. ‘I like you, Bobby, I really do. You’re a lad of spirit, and if it wasn’t for you I’d probably still be a sergeant. But before I’ve finished, I’ll find a way to nail you.’

  ‘There’s gratitude for you – as we say in Llawesuohtihs,’ I joked nervously.

  ‘Your Welsh accent’s nearly as bad as your Irish one,’ Fliques said cuttingly. ‘I’ll be around for a couple of days, asking questions about you. I’m staying at the …’ he consulted his black police notebook, ‘... at the Land of My Fathers Commercial Hotel. Come and see me if there’s anything you want to get off your chest.’

  He turned and walked back towards the centre of town, sucking on his rock again. I was about to move off myself, when he suddenly wheeled round and froze me to the spot with his piercing eyes.

  ‘Was there … was there something else, Inspector?’ I called across the ten-yard gap which now separated us.

  ‘Just one thing,’ he shouted back. ‘Purely as a matt
er of interest, Bobby, how long do you think this auntie’s going to last?’

  4

  My involvement with Aunt Catherine’s famous post box was due to a combination of geography and cardiology. My aunt’s terraced house was located half-way up Gregynog Street. To the left, the road plunged recklessly down to the sea. To the right, it clawed its way up a small mountain. The post office was located to the right, making getting there a fair pull even for a healthy youth like me. For my aunt, who suffered from angina, it was almost an ordeal.

  ‘So why don’t you let me go instead,’ I suggested, when she first mentioned her difficulties.

  ‘I wouldn’t think of it,’ Aunt Catherine replied. ‘My letters are far too important to be entrusted to you.’

  She remained adamant about going herself for quite some time, but one day in early spring, when the burning pains in her chest were particularly bad, she gave way. ‘But mind you bring them straight back to me,’ she said.

  ‘I will, Auntie,’ I promised.

  I set out determined to complete this task with the speed and efficiency I’d demonstrated in all the other things my aunt had assigned me. At first, everything went smoothly – no aeroplanes crash-landed on me as I climbed the hill, not a single fissure suddenly opened in the ground to swallow me up. It was only when I reached the post office that I hit a problem – in the form of a white-haired man in a heavy tweed jacket who was arguing with the only counter clerk on duty.

  ‘Why can’t I use this stamp?’ the white-haired man demanded.

  ‘I’ve told you a dozen times, Mr Jones,’ the clerk said wearily, ‘it’s Mauritanian.’

  ‘It’s still a stamp, isn’t it?’ the customer asked.

  ‘Not really.’

  Mr Jones looked round in search of support, and his eye fell on me.

  ‘Does it look like a stamp to you?’ he asked.

  ‘Well, yes, but—’

  ‘He thinks it’s a stamp,’ Jones said, swinging back to the clerk.

  ‘All right, it is a stamp,’ the clerk admitted. ‘But it’s only legal in its country of origin.’

  Realisation was beginning to dawn on Jones’ face.

  ‘Are you saying that if I go to Mauritania, I can use this stamp to post a letter to my niece in Cardiff?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes,’ the clerk replied, with obvious relief.

  ‘How long will it take me to get there?’ Mr Jones asked.

  ‘I don’t know,’ the clerk said. ‘You’ll have to check at the bus station. Now if that’s all, sir …’

  But it wasn’t all. Mr Jones had a number of other urgent enquiries to make. If the cost of postal orders was going up, did that mean the pound was worth more – or less? Was it true that the government had yet again turned down his request to have a stamp issued commemorating his granddaughter’s birthday? What was the Post Office going to about the poor reception he was getting on BBC2?

  ‘He only comes in once a month, thank God,’ the bedraggled clerk told me, three-quarters of an hour later. ‘Now, let’s see. It’s P.O. Box 32 we’re looking for, isn’t it?’

  There were eight letters waiting to be picked up.

  ‘That’s rather a lot, isn’t it?’ I asked.

  ‘About average, I’d say,’ the clerk replied. ‘Sometimes she gets a few more, sometimes a few less, but normally she gets around eight a day.’

  Was I tempted to open one of the letters as I rushed down the hill? Of course I was!

  I was dying to know why so many people would write to an ageing widow living in the back of beyond.

  And, of course, I wanted to know what the difference was between Aunt Catherine’s ordinary correspondents and the “special” ones who Aunt Peggy had told me would do anything for her.

  Oh yes, the temptation was there, all right – but so was my early training.

  ‘You should never, ever, read other people’s letters,’ Mother used to say. ‘That’s as bad as spying on them.’

  So though my fingers itched to slit open one of the envelopes, the letters stayed safely in my pocket.

  Aunt Catherine was waiting for me on the doorstep, with an anxious expression on her face.

  ‘You’ve been a long time,’ she gasped.

  ‘There was a queue at the Post Office,’ I explained.

  ‘I was worried,’ Aunt Catherine croaked. ‘Those letters …’ She placed a hand on her scrawny chest. ‘I … I don’t know what’s worse for my angina – climbing up that hill, or fretting over you doing it.’

  I’d never heard my aunt talk this way before. Imagine it – three whole sentences without her once resorting to one of her infamous supermarket images! Anxiety can do all kinds of strange things to people – and it had almost turned Aunt Catherine into a human being.

  ‘Let’s go inside, Auntie Catherine,’ I said. ‘You look as if you could use a cup of tea.’

  ‘A cup of tea,’ my aunt repeated, in a tone which suggested that what I’d just offered her was as strange and alien as a trip to the planet Venus.

  ‘It’ll do you good,’ I told her.

  ‘Yes,’ Aunt Catherine agreed, pulling herself together a little. ‘A cup of tea would be very nice.’

  I led her into the kitchen, and sat her down in her favourite chair.

  ‘Are all those letters to do with the work of the Mission?’ I asked, playing on the fact that my late return from the Post Office had, for once, caused my aunt to drop her guard.

  ‘No,’ Aunt Catherine said, obviously still a little dazed and incautious. ‘No, they’re business.’

  Business? I thought. What sort of business could my aunt possibly be involved in?

  ‘Is that why you’ve got your computer,’ I prodded, ‘because you need it for your business?’

  My aunt’s eyes hardened. ‘Computer? What computer?’

  ‘The one you keep in the spare room upstairs.’

  ‘How do you know about that?’ my aunt demanded.

  Why was she making such a fuss about it?

  ‘You left the door to the spare room open once,’ I said. ‘I saw it as I walking past.’

  Aunt Catherine relaxed. ‘No, the computer is not for business,’ she said. ‘I have it for my lists.’

  ‘Lists? Lists of what?’

  ‘Of memberships,’ my aunt said, almost dreamily. She began counting them off on her fingers. ‘The Church of God the Rambler, Chepstow; The Holy Sinners of Reading; God the Astronaut, Chipping Sodbury; The Second Coming Reserved Exclusively For Bradford, plc … endless organisations, all striving, in their different ways, for salvation.’

  She wasn’t lying – not about that. When I finally got around to checking, that’s exactly what I found – lists, endless lists, giving the names and addresses of a wide assortment of individual crackpots and the clearly lunatic organisations to which they belonged.

  ‘Do you ever write to any of these people?’ I asked.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then why keep the lists at all?’

  ‘Because it is a comfort to me to read the names, and to know that all over the country there are people spreading God’s message.’

  The old hypocrite. The lists weren’t there to give her comfort – she kept them so she could do cross-referencing, and thus determine who was to be one of her “special” correspondents.

  5

  The Mission Hall was a corrugated-iron structure with a curved roof. From the air, it must have resembled a beached whale. From the ground, it just looked like a mistake.

  It had been erected – hurriedly – at the start of the Second World War, to house the Home Guard. Adolf Hitler, back in Berlin, immediately realising its importance to Britain’s strategic defence, had done his best to bomb it – but had failed. Instead, one of his misguided bombs had destroyed Probert’s fish and chip shop, an act of destruction which inflicted far more damage to the town’s morale than could ever have been achieved by blowing up a few old b
ank clerks and insurance agents who were playing at soldiers.

  Just after the War, it had been purchased by a shady character from London, who claimed he wanted to use it as a store for his “novelty” goods. It did not take long for word of just how novel the goods were to spread around the town. The place was stormed by the Zionist Chapel and Townswomen’s Guild Combined Shock Troops, and its entire contents were either burned or dumped into the sea. The smell of rubber hung over the town for several days, and prophylactics – singly or in packs of three – proved a hazard to shipping for several months after that.

  After its flirtation with commerce, the building stood empty for several years. By the time Pastor Ives took it over, the weather had almost completed the task at which the Luftwaffe had failed, and whenever the wind blew in from the sea, the Mission creaked and groaned alarmingly. And then its saviour appeared on the horizon – a young man eager to please his aunt, a hardy lad willing to devote his weekends to tightening bolts, replacing panels and slotting in new supports.

  ‘You are doing God’s work, Robert,’ Pastor Ives told me one day, as I was fixing a leak in the roof. ‘The Mission may not seem much, but appearances are deceptive. Some of the finest products in the world are stored in places like this before they see the light of day in the supermarkets. This mission,’ he waved his hand expansively, ‘is God’s warehouse. It is from here that my flock will be transported to the shelves of Paradise.’

  The inside of God’s warehouse had to seen to be believed. In many ways it was quite conventional. There was a font near the door, and rows of standard pews stretched from the back of the hall to the front. If you ignored the fact that the altar – dominated by a large cash register – had once served as a counter in Williams’ High Class Drapery, you could have been excused for believing that it was a perfectly ordinary chapel.

  Except for the walls!

  The walls were plastered with captioned paintings, all of them the efforts of the good Pastor Ives.

  And what subjects he chose: God gazing down lovingly on a young couple (closely resembling Adam and Eve) who are just about to sign a hire purchase agreement; Moses, exhorting his followers on to land of milk and honey – and the January sales; Christ on the cross – immaculately turned out in His designer loincloth and Pierre Cardin crown of thorns – over which hung the caption, “He died that you might spend.”