The Case of the Dotty Dowager

by Cathy Ace

  ‘Whatever you say, Christine,’ he replied quietly.

  ELEVEN

  David Hill entered the small living room of the flat he shared with his wife to discover her sitting with her beloved calico cat, Bunty, on her lap, a mug of steaming tea at her side and tapping away at her laptop.

  ‘Sorry, Carol, I didn’t mean to sleep in,’ he spluttered.

  Carol looked up from her screen. ‘Aw, you looked so lovely there so fast, fast asleep, that I didn’t like to disturb you. You’ve had a busy week. You must have needed the sleep. There’s tea in the pot. Should be all right. Can you manage?’

  David grinned at his wife and set off to get himself some tea and toast.

  Carol returned her attention to her screen. She had a list of things to do before the rest of the team members were likely to check in with her and she wanted to get ahead of the game. The rosters of casual staff at Chellingworth Hall had arrived first thing, and she was carrying out what checks she could on the people listed. She was grateful that full addresses had been provided, because every other person seemed to be a Jones, Williams, Thomas or Davies, which, being Welsh herself, she realized would be the norm in the area. She’d already been at it for over an hour and hadn’t found anything amiss with anyone so far.

  She wasn’t hopeful that emails she’d sent regarding Jennifer Newbury’s, and the Dower House’s cook, Mary Wilson’s, previous employment would get a response on a Saturday morning, but she’d tried in any case. She’d put out a few feelers about Ian Cottesloe and his volunteering with the local Scout troop but, again, didn’t expect much to happen until Monday at the earliest. That was going to be her main problem, with the girls being away at the weekend.

  By the time her husband came back into the sitting room with his breakfast tray, Carol knew she was able to take a break, so she pushed the laptop away, and snuggled Bunty, who deigned to arch her back and return Carol’s petting with a long, slow stretch.

  ‘How are you this morning? All right?’ asked David anxiously.

  ‘Not too bad,’ replied his wife with a smile. She felt wretched, but she didn’t like to complain about her nausea, because it didn’t help anyone.

  ‘Did you eat?’

  ‘Had some toast.’

  David nodded as he crunched into his own, the thick layer of butter and Marmite squelching and dripping onto his plate as he did so. ‘Mmmm …’ he mumbled.

  Carol smiled, winked and swallowed with a dry throat.

  ‘Anything much happening yet?’ mumbled David through his toast.

  Carol looked at the clock and her sleepy-headed beloved husband, then shook her head. ‘It’s early yet. They’re all on the move to their locations. I’ve got a few bits I can be doing, but I need more information from them to be able to help. I don’t think there’ll be much until this afternoon. We could fit in the grocery shopping after breakfast, and come back for a late lunch, then I can start. But, in the meantime, maybe you could jump online and start hunting down some suitable places for us to live when we’re three? You know, something that’s got more than a cupboard as a second bedroom, and doesn’t mean either of us has to sacrifice a limb to be able to afford it. How about that?’

  David nodded, and began to look through the listings of houses for sale on his own laptop.

  TWELVE

  When Alexander Bright presented his invitation at the door of the starkly white art gallery on Hoxton Square on Saturday evening, he was greeted with a wan smile by the woman with the lank hair who took it from him. A server, who he suspected had been hired for the evening, managed a wider beam as he offered Alexander a glass of champagne. Finally, a girl he placed in her late twenties with a strong Eastern European accent, managed a genuine grin when she offered him, ‘a savory treat without fish’, which seemed, to Alexander at least, to be an odd way to describe a canapé.

  Wandering among the startling sculptural works, which all combined reclaimed wood and barbed wire in some sort of configur-ation, Alexander tried to look interested, which he wasn’t. He yearned for art which was beautiful, spoke to the soul, or at least employed fine skills. But he spotted his mark for the evening, and gradually worked his way toward her.

  Lady Clementine Twyst had been described to Alex as being vivacious, which he’d often heard used as a euphemism for plain, but noisy. He quickly realized that the word was hardly adequate to describe the woman he was regarding. Dressed entirely in black, with a gash of red lipstick and a vivid purple head of bobbed hair, Clementine Twyst’s appearance screamed ‘art hipster’. Sadly, although she certainly did give off an aura of intense positivity, she was about fifty, so a few decades too old for the look she espoused, and the clique which surrounded her seemed to comprise very young men in worn, shoddy clothes, who looked as though they needed a good bath and a decent meal.

  Alexander was disappointed, though he immediately realized that the task ahead of him would be easier than he’d feared. Launching a major charm offensive, he approached, introduced himself, mentioned the names of a few people who knew Clementine and, within five minutes the couple was alone, with Alexander allowing himself to be entranced by ‘Clemmie’s’ explanation of why the works in the room spoke to her.

  Alexander noticed how Clemmie drank. It wasn’t how much she drank, but the way that she drank, that was familiar to him. It was how his mother had drunk, though she’d never had to bother with the social niceties.

  An hour later they were eating plates of charcuterie in a supposedly cool restaurant on Wadeson Street, which had the appeal of only being accessible via a rather forlorn alley. Clemmie nibbled, as did Alexander, but she continued to drink, whereas he sipped Earl Grey tea.

  By the time Alexander poured Clemmie Twyst into his Aston Martin to deliver her to her substantial home just off Knightsbridge, they had a plan for him to collect her at ten the next morning to drive to see her family’s collection of antique dentures.

  Finally feeling the cool, clean, 600-thread-count sheets of his own pillow, Alexander allowed himself a moment of joy. He’d achieved what he’d set out to do; he was about to be taken to see one of the most comprehensive aggregations of antique dentures in the world. If all the rumors about what he would have the chance to see at Chellingworth Hall were true, not even the British Dental Association, or even the Hunterian Museum, had managed to accumulate such a selection. He wondered if the Twyst collection really did contain a spare set of Winston Churchill’s dentures, as many sets of Waterloo Teeth as he’d been led to believe, and even ancient Egyptian, Indian, Japanese and American teeth too.

  Turning onto his side he contemplated, once again, why he felt so connected to dentures, then he dreamed of his mother and of his elocution coach and tried to stop all his own teeth from flying out of his mouth as he slept.

  THIRTEEN

  As Olive Saxby’s driving descended into mere torture, Annie Parker began to pray for her life. She also prayed that the red-brick monstrosity that they were approaching was their destination and was relieved when Olive said, ‘Nearly there.’

  Looking like a cross between a Victorian school and a local authority office block, the building outside which Olive scraped the Land Rover to a shuddering halt lacked any grace whatsoever. The brick was harsh and new, the windows classlessly plastic and the stone lions, rampant, at the front door made Annie think of a downmarket restaurant, rather than a palatial home. The scale of the place was grandiose, but it looked as though it had been built by a child who wanted a giant dollhouse.

  ‘Just wait till he sees you. I bet he’ll be speechless,’ enthused Olive as she jumped down onto the coral pink gravel.

  Without waiting for Annie, the woman raced to the front door, as quickly as her septuagenarian legs could carry her, then she began to remove her wellies. Hopping about, as best she could, she turned to Annie, who was dutifully trying her best to catch up, and said, ‘Shoes off, love. He don’t like people wearin’ shoes in the house.’

  Annie was horrifie
d. She hated her feet being on display and bemoaned the fact, silently, that she was wearing men’s socks inside her trainers. But she had little choice but to accede to her host’s wishes.

  Once inside, Annie became even more apprehensive. The entryway soared two stories above her and a staircase swooped up both sides, making a meal of gold-embossed ironwork as it did so. The patterned wooden floor looked as inviting as an ice-rink to Annie, who envisaged her sock-clad feet slithering away from beneath her. Walking gingerly at first, she tried sliding her feet rather than striding out, and wondered how long she’d be able to remain upright.

  The front door closed behind them, Olive Saxby called out, with a powerful and raucous voice, ‘Wayne? Wayne, love, where are you?’

  ‘In the kitchen, Mum. And don’t scream,’ replied a gruff voice, just as loudly.

  Olive grinned at Annie. ‘Ooo, I can hardly wait!’ She hugged Annie and indicated that she should follow her lead. Annie did. Tentatively. The long corridor stretched ahead of them, and Annie noted large rooms on either side as she made her cautious way behind Olive.

  Just as they approached a wide archway at the back of the house, Olive announced, ‘I’ve brought you a surprise, Wayne. A visitor. I’ll bet you’ll never guess who.’ She turned to Annie. ‘Come on in, love, he don’t bite.’

  Annie walked into a kitchen-cum-sitting room that was about the same size as her entire flat, and saw a man and woman sitting on a sofa beneath the biggest television screen she’d ever seen. The man didn’t look at all familiar, and his expression suggested he felt the same way about Annie.

  Wayne Saxby looked at Annie, then his mother. He held up his hands in confusion.

  ‘And this is?’ he said, sounding annoyed.

  ‘Oh, come on, love. You know her. You do. She knows you, don’t you?’ Olive looked at Annie with a mixture of apprehension and hope.

  Annie thought it best to cut to the chase. ‘Annie Parker,’ she said brightly. ‘Mile End?’

  A glimmer of recognition crept into Wayne’s eyes. He stood and took off the spectacles he’d been using to read the newspaper. Annie noted that he was a strapping man, though not flabby. He’d managed to hold on to most of his hair, too. Peering at each other, they both said, in chorus, ‘Oh, yeah, I see it now,’ and then they laughed.

  ‘Annie Parker. As I live and breathe,’ said Wayne. His wife was looking up at him with a surprised expression. ‘Annie and I were in school together, Merle,’ he explained. ‘Annie, my wife, Merle. Merle, meet the only girl who ever gave me a black eye. Remember?’

  Annie grinned. ‘Not on purpose, doll. If you recall, I was trying to do a handstand against the wall of the school but I lost me balance and caught you a cropper on the way down. Maybe if you hadn’t been so interested in trying to untuck my dress from inside my knickers you wouldn’t have got clobbered, eh?’

  Back patting and hugging ensued and pretty soon Annie was settled on the sofa with a gin and tonic and an opportunity to relive many old memories. A slight sense of guilt nibbled at her conscience as she chatted happily about old classmates and shared or gleaned information about what had become of them. The same process for beloved, or hated, teachers, then for old out-of-school friends and contacts. Eventually, Merle Saxby took her leave to busy herself in the kitchen, with Olive’s help, and their call to join them at the table in the dining room was met by Annie and Wayne with a cheer.

  Settling herself at the table, with a fresh gin and tonic and a glass of good Cabernet Sauvignon in front of her, Annie felt it appropriate to raise her glass to her hosts. Her smile was genuine when she spoke.

  ‘Well, I’d never have guessed I’d be doing this tonight. I came here to Wales expecting to be eating pie and chips in the pub, on me own, having yomped about the countryside a bit, and here I am thinking about being the blackboard monitor at Mile End Juniors and breakin’ me arm when I tried to play football against twinkle-toes Saxby here.’ She raised her glass toward Wayne. ‘Took me out like I was a boy, you did, and I know that was one of the reasons we were such good friends afterwards. Never treated me any different because I was the tallest in the class, boy or girl, and never made fun of me feet, me big bum, or me skin color. Ta, doll.’

  Wayne grinned.

  Annie next raised her glass toward her host’s mother. ‘I don’t know why you were in the Coach and Horses today, Olive, but I’m glad you were, and that you recognized me and invited me here. And thanks for this lovely dinner, Merle. Roast beef and Yorkshire pud is just about my favorite meal. And the promise of spotted dick for afters has got me mouth watering already. What a treat on a Saturday night. But what will you have tomorrow, if you’re having this fancy roast on a Saturday night?’

  ‘Sunday is sports in this house,’ replied Merle. ‘No time for a big meal, so I always do one on Saturday. Right, love?’

  Wayne nodded.

  Annie thought it a bit odd, but was grateful for the strange habit, nonetheless. ‘Cheers to you all,’ she said, raising her glass. ‘Bottoms up!’

  ‘Cheers! Bottoms up!’

  They all drank.

  Silence, punctuated by Annie’s ‘mmmm’s’ and ‘lovely gravy’ were all that followed for several minutes, then the conversation renewed.

  ‘I wonder what Eustelle would think of this,’ mused Annie.

  ‘We could phone her when we’ve finished here,’ said Olive. ‘Love to hear her voice again, I would. That lovely Caribbean accent. I can see her now, plain as day, standing at the gates of the infants’ school on your first day, Annie. Cried like a baby, she did. You didn’t look back once, just ran into the doors and you was gone.’

  ‘I don’t remember that,’ admitted Annie with a pang of guilt. Poor Eustelle. ‘I do remember Mr Locklear, though. I dare say he wasn’t really that big, or that old, but he seemed it to me. Remember him, Wayne?’

  Wayne nodded and washed down a mouthful of roast potato with a gulp of wine.

  His mother answered Annie as he drank. ‘He was the only male teacher at that school of yours. Funny that. Terrible what happened to him. Did you hear about it?’

  Annie shook her head.

  Olive shook her head heavily. ‘His house burned down. Him in it. About ten – no, twenty years ago now. Very sad.’

  Annie was taken aback. She didn’t know anyone who had died in such a tragic way. ‘Oh, Gordon Bennett! That’s awful. What happened?’

  ‘No one knew,’ replied Olive. ‘Went up in minutes, the paper said. Nothing anyone could do. His cat got out and that was that. Saved the houses either side, though they were flooded, of course. All the water. Still, lucky no one else was killed. Tore down the whole row in the end, they did. Wasn’t that one of the early lots you bought, love?’ she asked her son.

  ‘Yeah. Weird, really,’ said Wayne thoughtfully. ‘I managed to get a row of six houses for a knock-down price, literally, and it made a real difference to the business at the time. I had no idea until later that Mr Locklear was the one who’d been killed.’

  ‘Yes, you did, love,’ replied his mother. ‘I remember at the time you said what a shame it was. You even knew that man who adopted his cat. Gilbert, wasn’t it? The cat, not the man. Don’t know his name.’

  Wayne rolled his eyes toward Annie. ‘I think you’re misremembering, Mum,’ he said, smiling.

  Olive concentrated on slicing a piece of beef and muttered, ‘I expect so, Wayne. If you say so, love.’

  ‘More of anything for you, Annie?’ asked Merle, flicking her lustrous dark hair that showed not a strand of gray, despite what Annie reckoned to be her forty-odd years.

  ‘No, ta, Merle. I think I’d better save some room for afters.’

  As post-dining relaxation ensued, Annie thought about telephoning her mother. Eustelle would enjoy talking to Olive, she thought, and it couldn’t do any harm. So, after a large, steaming spotted dick had been served and heaped with glistening custard, then consumed, she dialed her mother’s number, told her where she was, menti
oned, as discreetly as she could, that her mother shouldn’t talk about Annie’s work, and passed the handset to Olive.

  ‘Eustelle? Eustelle Parker? Ooo, how lovely …’ began Olive Saxby, giggling.

  ‘Let me show you around the place, while Merle’s clearing up,’ said Wayne close to Annie’s ear. ‘Mum’ll be on the phone for ages. I hope your mum manages to get a word in edgeways.’

  Annie laughed. ‘I talk a lot, doll, but it’s Eustelle who taught me how. I think she’ll give as good as she gets. And, yes, I’d love to see the place. Looks like a big house. But I should help Merle with things, first.’

  ‘No, I insist you go with Wayne,’ replied his wife. ‘It won’t take me long to clear this lot into the dishwasher, then I’m going to make some coffee. Decaf all right for you, Annie?’

  Annie hated decaffeinated coffee. She didn’t see the point of drinking it, but, to be polite, she agreed it would be just smashing.

  ‘Come on then,’ urged Wayne. ‘Let’s start upstairs and work our way back down.’

  ‘I could do with moving around a bit to let that lovely meal go down,’ said Annie to Merle as her host led her out of the kitchen and back toward the front door.

  Clambering up the stairs, Annie knew she was hankering for a smoke, but she told herself she’d have to wait. It occurred to her that she might get some insights into the local community from Wayne, so she formulated her attack and began.

  ‘So, if you’ve been here five years, you must know a lot of the people hereabouts,’ she began, addressing Wayne’s back as he scaled the stairs ahead of her.

  He half turned as he climbed and said, ‘Not too many. We don’t mix too much locally. There’s a nice bloke on this estate who comes from Northamptonshire and made a pile running a private minibus and coach company. His wife and Merle get along fine. Go off to this little spa type of place in Hay-on-Wye, they do. You know, get everything waxed and painted, or buffed and bronzed. He and I have been known to enjoy the odd brandy or two together when the girls are off primping. But we don’t go into the village much. Mum likes to, so she does things like going to the post office for us, and so forth.’