The Caroline Quest

by Barbara Whitnell

  *

  My main preoccupation the following morning was to place the ads asking for information about Caroline. I contacted all the papers that Steve had suggested, and after a lot of thought I dictated:

  BETHANY. Would Caroline Bethany, last heard of in Oxford in 1991, or anyone with any knowledge of her whereabouts, please contact James Fenton (Jim) Crozier’s sister urgently, view friendship and support.

  I’d omitted Jim’s full name in my first draft, but then thought that maybe it would be as well to print the whole lot. The notice would, I was told, appear in the personal column of the newspapers the following day, under a box number. So that was taken care of.

  I then looked up Greenway Development in the directory and copied down the address. I had made up my mind that I would pay them a visit rather than contact them by telephone, feeling that I was more likely to Find someone to help me if I were standing before them in person. And indeed, the way I was passed from hand to hand when I got there made me feel that I had made the right decision.

  The company seemed to have a policy of employing only the young and trendy, none of whom had heard of Caroline Bethany. I was directed, eventually, to the office of the human resources manager who, despite the impressive title, looked about fifteen. After proclaiming himself baffled, he suggested a visit to the accounts department, where I would find a certain Doreen Mortimore who had been with the company ‘for ever’.

  I did not find this difficult to believe. Miss Mortimore was angular, with a thin nose, even thinner lips, and little round eyeglasses. She could have been any age between forty and sixty. I put my question to her and for a moment she did not answer but merely looked at me suspiciously, that forbidding mouth folded into a tight little circle. After a moment, still in silence, she turned to her computer terminal and punched a few more keys, staring at the screen as if she did not at all like what she saw. I hovered beside her, trying to be patient.

  ‘Caroline Bethany,’ she said musingly at last, turning her head to look at me with ice-cold eyes. ‘Of course I knew her. I remember her well. Why do you want to know?’

  ‘I’m trying to find her,’ I explained, and launched into my spiel. Over from America, anxious to contact my late brother’s friends, et cetera, et cetera.

  ‘She did have an American boyfriend, that’s true.’

  ‘That was my brother. Please — have you any idea where she is now?’

  ‘None,’ she said briefly, and turned back to her computer, apparently once more absorbed in the columns of figures on the screen. Was that it? I continued to hover in the hope that something helpful might yet be forthcoming.

  ‘To tell you the truth,’ I said, when she continued to disregard my existence, ‘I’m beginning to get a little anxious about her. She seems to have dropped out of existence.’ Miss Mortimore permitted herself a thin smile, her eyes still on the monitor.

  ‘One thing I can tell you for certain,’ she said. ‘She’ll be all right, wherever she is. Caroline Bethany is a survivor. She knows exactly how to lake care of herself.’

  ‘What makes you say that?’ I asked.

  She arched her neck and massaged it a little, not answering for a moment. Then she shrugged.

  ‘We joined Greenways at about the same time, Caroline and I. She was younger than me, less experienced all round. She was taken on as a junior secretary. I came into the accounts department. Now I’m in charge of it — responsible for all this.’ Vaguely she lifted an arm to indicate the rest of the room, where half a dozen other girls were busy with their own computers.

  ‘Congratulations,’ I murmured, and she laughed derisively.

  ‘Congratulations? Fifteen years it’s taken me. Fifteen years!’ She paused again and bashed a key or two. ‘In six months Caroline Bethany had become secretary and personal assistant to the managing director.’ She turned and looked at me, her mouth set in a bitter little smile, her eyes hard and cold. ‘You can draw your own conclusions from that.’

  ‘Perhaps she was simply very good at her job,’ I said.

  Doreen Mortimore gave a snort of laughter.

  ‘Let’s say she was a pretty girl who was very good at making up to the right people! Mr Quigley was MD at the time, and in no time at all she was arranging social events for him, going to parties at his house, taking shopping trips with Mrs Quigley, going to the ballet and opera and art exhibitions — we all knew about it. It was the talk of the place.’

  ‘Is he still here, this Mr Quigley?’

  ‘No. He left years ago. Eleven or twelve at the very least.’ She turned to her screen once more, with an air of finality. ‘I’m afraid that’s all I can tell you. I really am very busy, so if you’ll excuse me - ’

  ‘Can’t you tell me where to find him?’

  ‘No, I can’t.’ She had reached for a file now and was studying it carefully, making it abundantly clear that she had no more time for me. I sighed.

  ‘Well, thanks,’ I said, and left her.

  I was walking a little disconsolately down the corridor towards the elevator when a thought struck me which made me turn right around and find my way to the human resources guy again.

  ‘I’m awfully sorry to bother you,’ I said to him.’I wonder if, perhaps, you have Mr Quigley’s home address in your files? Miss Mortimore tells me he was the managing director here in Caroline Bethany’s time. Before - ’

  ‘Before Mr Miller-Formby? Yes, that’s right. I never knew him, but I’ve heard the name and seen his signature on various old documents.’ He looked at me doubtfully. ‘I suppose we must have it somewhere, but I can’t possibly divulge it. It wouldn’t be ethical.’

  I gave my best smile and batted my eyelashes at him, feeling a little guilty as I saw the tide of red that flooded his face.

  ‘I wouldn’t want you to do anything that wasn’t strictly above board,’ I said sweetly. ‘How about his phone number? It’s his wife I really want to speak to. It seems she was friendly with Caroline, and I’m so anxious to find her. This is the best lead I’ve had yet.’

  He cleared his throat, cased his collar, and looked away from me. biting his lip. Then he glanced in my direction again, still blushing, and gave a small, uncertain smile.

  ‘Well’ he said doubtfully.

  Lightly. I touched his arm.

  ‘You know what?’ I said. ‘British men are just the sweetest in the world, and the most intelligent. Now, if you were American you’d simply stick by the rules without using your brain at all.’

  I seemed to hear Grandma McAllister’s voice in my ear, saying, ‘Mary Lou, may you be forgiven!’

  ‘I suppose if it’s Mrs Quigley you want to see...’ His voice trailed away as he considered the matter further. ‘Well, I can’t see the harm,’ he finished, suddenly making up his mind. ‘Hang on a moment.’

  He disappeared and was away for five minutes or so before coming back with a scrap of paper in his hand which he gave to me with a nervous smile.

  ‘Just don’t let on it was me who gave it to you,’ he said.

  ‘I won’t,’ I said, ‘I promise.’

  Full of glee, I left the offices of Greenway Development and managed to find a telephone in the street outside where I wasted no time in dialling the number I’d been given first ensuring that I had a pocketful of change, as I had no idea of the location of the Quigley residence. It could, as far as I knew, be in the north of Scotland.

  I soon found it was not that far away. It was a woman who picked up the phone, and the words she used were enough to cause me a flutter of excitement.

  ‘Henley 00963,’ she said.

  Seven

  ‘Henley!’ I said to Steve when we met for lunch. ‘Wasn’t that the place you said was on the River Thames? So it could have been at the Quigleys’ house that Caroline and Jim met.’

  ‘Could be,’ Steve said. ‘Didn’t you ask?’

  ‘I thought it could wait until we met — but surely it has to be, Steve. Caroline and Mrs Quigley — Rose — w
ere friends and, according to Doreen Mortimore, spent a lot of time in each other’s company. Which, I may say, our Miss Mortimore didn’t approve of one bit! She was practically spitting nails about it. even after all this time.’

  ‘What did you and Rose arrange?’

  ‘She said she didn’t think she could help but that she’d like to meet me and to talk about Caroline, so I said I’d go out there tomorrow morning. I might learn something useful, who knows? I’ll hire a car and drive myself.’

  Steve looked dubious.

  ‘Are you happy about that? I wish you’d let me drive you. Only thing is, the morning’s absolutely out for me - I’ve got two appointments I really mustn’t miss. I’d be glad to take you later in the day, though.’

  I can’t say that driving out of London on the wrong side of the road to a place I didn’t know was particularly appealing, and for a moment I was tempted by Steve’s offer. In the end, though, I shook my head.

  ‘No, Steve. Thanks all the same, but Rose seemed to imply it would be better for her if I went in the morning, and that’s what I agreed to do so I’d better abide by it. Besides, it’ll stop me just sitting around feeling frustrated. I guess it’s time I got to grips with driving in England. All I need is someone to point me in the direction of Henley.’

  ‘For God’s sake be careful.’

  ‘I will,’ I promised him. ‘Believe me, I’m a good driver. Honestly! And I have this kind of hunch that says if you can drive in New York you can drive anywhere.’

  ‘Rose,’ he said musingly, apparently accepting my assurances. ‘Now you mention it, I think I remember Caroline talking about her. I never met her, though. My impression was that seeing her was more in the line of duty. I wouldn’t have said they seemed really close.’

  ‘Then who was she close to, Steve? Think!’

  We were in the pub by this time, drinking beer and eating ham sandwiches, and for a moment he chewed reflectively. Then he shook his head, defeated.

  ‘It’s no good. I’ve racked my brains ever since you asked me before, but I don’t think I ever heard the last name of any of her friends. You must remember I didn’t know Caroline until after she was heavily involved with Jim and to say they didn’t have much time for anyone but each other was the understatement of the century. You know how it is.’

  I know, I thought, how I’d like it to be, but I confined myself to nodding without speaking.

  ‘Maybe the ads will winkle someone out,’ he went on. ‘Like I said before, London’s a bit of a transit camp. People move on, everyone’s rushing around with no time for anyone but themselves. For which,’ he added unhappily, ‘I have to take my share of guilt. It’s frightening to think now how I took it as quite normal that Caroline should want to drop out. I was so busy trying to get the resources together to go into business on my own that I didn’t pause to wonder why on earth she’d do such a thing.’

  ‘You think it was out of character?’

  ‘Yes, I do, now I think of it. Way out of character. The whole scene, I mean, from not saying anything about the baby to having this split with her aunt and never getting in touch with her again. I can’t get my head around that. It simply doesn’t tie in with anything I know about her. She had a warm, spontaneous kind of nature and though I can imagine her flying off the handle under pressure I can’t believe she wouldn’t attempt some kind of reconciliation.’

  ‘It does seem strange, doesn’t it?’ I thought it over. ‘Unless - ’ I began. Then interrupted myself. ‘No, that’s too silly.’

  ‘What were you going to say?’

  ‘Only that — well, maybe something happened to her. Something to prevent a reunion, I mean.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘I don’t know. I can’t help wondering...’

  For some reason the taxi driver had come into my mind, with his talk of Jim’s accident not being an accident at all, that he could have been run down deliberately. I’d dismissed it out of hand at the time, but now I couldn’t help thinking suppose the same thing had happened to Caroline? Who would know? Her aunt was her only living relative and under the circumstances she might not have got to hear of it. I guess my face expressed my emotions.

  ‘What is it?’ Steve asked. ‘You look as if you’ve just thought of something.’

  For a moment I said nothing. It all seemed so crazily melodramatic, so utterly impossible. This was, after all, peaceful England, not downtown Los Angeles. Steve would surely laugh at me, tell me I was foolish to harbour such a thought for one second. But in the end I told him, and he didn’t laugh. He merely sat staring at me, brows drawn together.

  ‘I never heard any such suggestion at the time,’ he said after a moment. ‘What happened to Jim was an awful, shocking, horrific tragedy and no one had words bad enough for the driver of the car, but I never heard it suggested that it could have been anything more than an accident.’

  ‘But Jim ran down that road to the fields every day, didn’t he?’

  ‘Almost every day, I think. He liked to keep fit.’

  ‘So his movements were predictable?’

  ‘Yes, I suppose so. But Holly, this really is in the realms of fantasy. What possible reason could anyone have had for killing him deliberately? He was just a nice guy, lived with a nice girl, loved good paintings and Italian food and playing squash and having fun. He never did any harm to anyone, so any kind of conspiracy theory doesn’t make any sense. Yet, on the other hand - ’

  He paused and I looked at him uncertainly.

  ‘On the other hand, what?’

  ‘There’s no doubt that Caroline’s disappearance is a bit of a mystery. Why would she cut off all communication with the people she knew before? Is it remotely possible that she and Jim knew something — saw something — ?’

  Suddenly I found I had lost all appetite for my sandwich.

  ‘No — no, I don’t suppose so. I expect there’s some perfectly normal explanation.’ He continued to look uneasy, though, as he looked at his watch. ‘We ought to be off if you’ve had all you want.’

  By mutual consent we didn’t talk much about Jim and Caroline on the way down to Fallowlands, the large house just beyond Dorking where the sale was to take place. We talked instead about holidays: where we’d been, where we’d like to go. It seemed a delightful coincidence to discover that we both cherished the dream of sailing up the Amazon.

  ‘And I really, really want to see the Great Wall of China,’ I said.

  ‘Been there, done that.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Before I went to university. I backpacked around Australia and the Far East. Doesn’t everyone?’

  ‘That must have been fun!’

  He laughed at that.

  ‘Yes, it was. Maybe more fun in retrospect than it was at the time. We often slept rough, and sometimes didn’t have enough to eat, but I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.’

  ‘So then you came home. Where did you go to university?’

  ‘Bristol. It’s a seaport in the south west - ’

  ‘I know where Bristol is! I’m not that ignorant.’

  ‘Oh, beg your pardon. I’m sure! I suppose it was there I really got hooked on antiques. There are some fantastic old shops in the back streets — were, anyway. It was all a long time ago. I expect they’ve all gone upmarket by now.’

  ‘Is there something particular you’re looking for today?’ I asked him.

  ‘Mm.’ His expression was a touch rueful, as if all depended on whether he could raise the funds. ‘I’ve been lusting over the catalogue ever since I got hold of it. There’s a Victorian scrollback sofa that I’d love to get my hands on. I have just the buyer for it, ready and waiting if only it goes for the right price.’

  ‘What about pictures? Will there be any?’

  ‘Yes, quite a lot but not for me. That’s not my field.’ My mind zoomed back to Jim. whose field it was. And, of course, Caroline.

  ‘I do hope we get a lead from those ads,’ I said, a
nd in response Steve took one hand off the wheel and rested it momentarily on my trousered thigh. It was a casual, asexual touch that was meant to bring comfort, but to me it seemed to burn like fire. Maybe to him, too, for his touch didn’t linger and his voice sounded a little strained when he spoke.

  ‘Patience,’ he said. ‘We can only wait and see.’

  Fallowlands turned out to be an impressive, solid kind of house. Victorian, Steve said, and a bit of a monstrosity, but I rather liked its Gothic turrets and irrelevant balconies. It seemed to me to demonstrate the enormous self-confidence, the total lack of self-doubt that must have informed those old Empire-builders.

  We approached it by a sweeping drive lined with trees and were directed around the back to park the car and to enter by what I imagined was the tradesmen’s entrance. Steve manoeuvred his battered Ford alongside a gleaming red Porsche.

  ‘Maybe one day,’ he said, looking at it longingly.

  ‘Thou shalt not covet thy neighbour’s automobile,’ I said, and he laughed.

  ‘That belongs to someone who’s more a neighbour of yours than mine. Rupert Craven. He has a gallery in St James’s Street, specialising in Victorian watercolours. Guess he’s interested in the Marleys.’

  I’d never heard the name of that particular artist but wasn’t about to confess my ignorance, so said nothing. In any case, he had spoken absently, as if his mind were elsewhere, and I guessed that it was his own affairs that were uppermost in his mind.

  Once inside, amongst all the other dealers and various members of the public, it interested me to see how he became, suddenly, very serious and professional. From various things he had said to me I understood that his feeling for fine craftsmanship was almost like a love affair; it thrilled him much as a Beethoven symphony thrilled a music lover, the grain of a piece of wood giving him as much pleasure as Jim would have found in a Rembrandt or a Vermeer. It was clear, too, that he enjoyed the thrill of the chase — the feeling that this might be the day that he would discover some magnificent piece at a bargain price.

  Here, on his own ground, I hung back, letting him go ahead to do his own particular thing. I saw how he was greeted by other dealers — could see that they liked and respected him — and it gave me vicarious pleasure to witness it.