The Case of the Dotty Dowager

by Cathy Ace

  Settling onto a bar stool, Annie decided that she’d try to find out what she could about Jacko’s son, Mickey, since she’d realized, at Wayne’s house, that if he was playing for a football team in the East End of London that wore bobble hats like the one the dowager had found, he was her lead suspect in the case of the disappearing corpse.

  Annie was good at chatter, and she knew it. Largely she knew it because most people told her so after she’d run off on a stream of consciousness for about five minutes. In her previous life, as a receptionist at a firm of Lloyd’s brokers in the City of London, it had been viewed as a quirk. Now she found she could use the technique to lull people into a false sense of security that they were passing time with a dimwitted chatterbox. It made them open up a treat.

  Halfway through her second drink, Jacko let it drop that he’d seen his son not too long ago, and Annie suspected that the timing might tie in with the incident at the Dower House. She also managed to establish that, yes, Tristan Thomas did indeed put some money into the Coach and Horses football team and, when Annie mentioned seeing the photographs of the teams at Wayne’s house, Jacko confirmed that Mickey still played for the team at the Hoop and Stick in Mile End. Happy that she had such confirmation – because she knew that confirmation was what good investigators always sought – she allowed Jacko to ramble on about Delyth and her dad for a while, then he offered her a brandy before bed.

  The last thing Annie recalled with any clarity was taking the brandy from Jacko and chinking glasses with him. Then nothing.

  Now it was morning, or, at least, she thought it must be, and she tried to arch her aching back. As she did so, Annie realized she was in more pain than she’d imagined and it wasn’t just the result of a hangover.

  Did I fall over? She couldn’t recall doing so.

  How did I get into bed? She couldn’t remember that either.

  She sat up and rubbed her still-closed eyes with little fists, like a child. Good grief her room smelled bad.

  Gordon Bennett! I’m not in me room at all. The bed was uncomfortable because it wasn’t a bed, but a mattress on the floor and a very lumpy one at that. The room wasn’t dark because the curtains were thick, it was dark because the only light was coming from one pathetic light bulb, encased in a grimy, round plastic cover, hanging on a wire behind her in the corner of the brick box that surrounded her.

  Annie’s stomach panicked and the rest of her wasn’t far behind. Peering about in the dim light, she allowed herself a couple of minutes to try to get her heart to stop thumping and to allow her eyes to acclimatize themselves to the gloom.

  The little room smelled of stale beer, dampness and general yuck. It didn’t smell of beer in the way a room does if people have been drinking in it, it smelled of beer in the way a place does if it’s been sloshed about all over the place. For years. Putting two and two together, Annie suspected that she was in the cellar of a pub. She couldn’t see any kegs about the place, but she was pretty certain of it. I’m in a pub cellar, or a pub store room. Immediately she was certain she must still be at the Coach and Horses. Where else? But why am I hidden away in a cellar?

  Putting aside the bigger questions for a moment, Annie allowed herself to consider her physical wellbeing and comfort for a moment or two. She felt herself all over, but couldn’t find any specific form of injury. Good, I’m still in one piece.

  There was no obvious source of heating in the room. She was cold. She pushed herself upright and looked all around the rough walls. She realized that the switch for the light must be beyond the heavy wooden door which was, of course, locked.

  A bucket in one corner provided her the only place to relieve herself. Even though she found the idea disgusting, she had little choice but to use it. There was a row of bottles of pop and a pile of chocolate bars. She panicked again that someone expected her to be in the room for long enough to need to use such ‘amenities’.

  Annie pounded on the door and shouted. She kept it up for at least ten minutes, or so she thought, then she took a break. Her throat was sore already.

  Retreating to the comparative comfort of the mattress, she sat herself down and gave the matter some thought. She reasoned that Jacko James had somehow twigged that she’d overheard him talking to Tristan Thomas. Maybe he heard me closing my window?

  After Annie had quizzed him about his son and the way that he played for the football team in London, Jacko must have decided she knew too much and had somehow drugged her – probably that final brandy? – and hidden her away in the cellar, or an outer store at the pub.

  Annie further reasoned that, because the Coach and Horses pub was in the village, even if the little brick-built room she was in was at the back of the building, she might be heard by someone, so she got up again and renewed her efforts at making as much noise as possible. The village is so quiet, someone must hear me.

  Annie had checked and knew she had no handbag, no phone, no watch, no shoes and, possibly worst of all, no cigarettes. Otherwise, she was still in the clothes she’d put on when she’d dressed at the pub in Talgarth on Saturday morning to take her bus journey to Anwen-by-Wye. She had no idea what time of day it was, or even if it was day or night. Realizing she was very, very hungry she began to wonder if it might not be Sunday morning at all, but much later in the day, or even heading for Monday. I have no concept of how long I’ve been unconscious.

  She swore at the door, then at Jacko James, then at everyone and anyone else she could think of. Then she did it all again, even more loudly. Eventually, Annie retreated to the mattress once more, and sat down.

  She finally allowed herself to give in to the wave of terror that was about to drown her and she cried like a baby, sobbing and sniffling, feeling completely and utterly alone, and trying to fight her fears about what was to become of her.

  After a while she began to get annoyed with herself for being so weak, so she dried her eyes and nose on her grubby top and, Annie being Annie, she began to try to work out what it was exactly that had worried Jacko James so much that he’d felt the need to drug and kidnap her.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Monday morning began very differently for each of the women of the WISE Enquiries Agency.

  Although she wasn’t aware of it, it was the morning when Annie Parker awoke in a brick box, bloodied her knuckles beating on a door, almost lost her voice calling for help, then cried like an infant.

  Carol got her husband ready to take the Tube train into Liverpool Street station. Having kissed him goodbye, she waved to his back, then settled herself at the dining table and powered up her laptop, ready to do battle with the world of data and translate it into information.

  The Honorable Christine Wilson-Smythe lay beneath a fine duck duvet thinking about Alexander Bright. He’d been witty and entertaining at dinner and she wished there were more men like him in her social circle. Finally rising, she gave some consideration to how to dress to be interviewed by the police. Then, rather surprisingly, she got a phone call from Mavis MacDonald.

  Mavis MacDonald was woken by her mobile at seven thirty that morning, when she was informed, very gently, that her mother had suffered a second stroke at her nursing home in Dumfries. She phoned Christine, who offered to drive Mavis to Scotland to see her mother, but Mavis declined, insisting that Christine needed to remain at Chellingworth Hall to retain some control over the case. The dowager very kindly volunteered Ian Cottesloe to drive Mavis to Scotland, which the ex-nurse also declined calmly. She finally acceded to Althea’s insistence that he be allowed to at least drive her to the railway station at Hereford, where Mavis had discovered there was a train departing around eleven a.m. which, with changes at Crewe and Carlisle, would get her to her mother by that afternoon. A concerned Althea hugged her new-found friend as she departed. Mavis assured her she’d keep in touch and that Christine, Annie and Carol were more than adequate to the task of following the leads about the bobble hat that would, surely, lead to discovering who the poor dead boy had been
.

  TWENTY-SIX

  Annie had eaten a few of the chocolate bars and drunk a bottle of the pop with which she shared her cell, but she felt sick and even hungrier. At least she could feel her energy and spirit return a little, but she still had no idea why she’d been locked up. She was absolutely desperate for a cigarette, too, which blackened her mood even further, if that were possible.

  She’d worked out that none of her colleagues would be likely to realize she was in trouble for hours. She’d sent her report to Carol, as required, at the end of Saturday. They didn’t have a real system or protocol for keeping in touch, and she wondered if that wasn’t something they should talk about for the future. As time dragged on, she imagined Christine wafting around a grand country estate like something out of a 1920s fantasy, while Mavis drank endless cups of tea with a withered dowager. Carol she imagined talking to her little bump. None of this helped her feel any better.

  She at least held out hope that her colleagues would worry if she didn’t report in at some point. They would expect to hear something from her on Sunday. Not for the first time Annie wondered what day it was.

  She’d continued to make bursts of effort through the day, or night, or whatever it was, shouting and banging her fists against the door, but to no avail. What worried her most was that she hadn’t heard any sounds at all from outside her place of incarceration. She’d expected something. A vehicle passing. The sound of humanity in some form. But she’d heard nothing.

  She couldn’t imagine why on earth that would be the case. Yes, Anwen-by-Wye was a small village, but it was full of people. She hadn’t even heard a church bell peal, or the honk of one annoyed motorist’s horn. It was as though the world beyond the brick walls which surrounded her had ceased to exist.

  She counted the chocolate bars and cans of pop again, consumed one more of each, and wondered how long she could live off the remaining store. Then she began to feel dizzy, so she lay on the mattress, hoping that sleep, and answers, would come. Sadly, all that met her on her pillow was a worried, sweaty slumber, in which she was haunted by visions of her mother, Eustelle, crying at her daughter’s grave, which was a giant brick box.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  After her sad and worrying telephone conversation with Mavis, Christine could do nothing but await the arrival of the police at Chellingworth Hall. Following coffee in her room, she thought she’d better check on any feedback she’d received from Carol, or any reports she’d been copied in by Annie.

  She was a bit miffed to find that Annie hadn’t been in touch at all on Sunday, and was disappointed by how little Carol had been able to discover about the link between Anwen-by-Wye and the East End pub, where they wore black and blue bobble hats, and Mickey James. Christine didn’t know the East End terribly well, and she made a mental note to get a full briefing from Annie.

  Thinking of her colleague, she checked the time. She reckoned that Annie would be up and about by this time on a Monday morning, especially since she was on a case, so she phoned her mobile number. It went straight to voicemail. Again, Christine’s immediate reaction was to be annoyed. Yes, Annie had found their big breakthrough clue on Saturday evening, but she could have tried to do a better job of keeping in touch since then, even if she had chosen to go romping about the countryside with some long-lost old friend!

  Christine gave the matter some thought, then decided that it would be just fine to phone Annie at the pub. She could be an anonymous friend to whom Annie had given the name of the pub. She pulled up the number in Carol’s records and dialed. A woman with a Welsh accent and a grumpy tone answered.

  ‘Hullo. Coach and Horses.’

  ‘Hello there – could I by any chance speak to a guest of yours, Annie Parker, please?’ asked Christine, using her best Irish accent. Having spent her earliest years on the family’s estate in Ireland, it was her second most natural accent – right behind her more usual clipped and cultured English tones.

  ‘No. She’s gone.’ The woman sounded angry.

  ‘Did she say when she’d be back?’

  ‘I mean gone gone. Left. You know, gone for good. And good riddance.’

  Christine was confused. Had Annie maybe gone to stay with her old friends from London? Had she done something to annoy this woman? ‘She told me she’d be there until today. Did she leave this morning? Already?’ Christine sounded as confused as she was.

  ‘Yesterday. I got up and she’d gone. All her stuff. She never even paid for any of her board. Very unfair, I call it. When you talk to her, you tell her she won’t be welcome here again. I don’t care if she is friends with Wayne-flamin’-Saxby. He might think he’s Lord Al-flamin’-Mighty around here, with all and sundry at his beck and call, but I don’t think it’s right to take bread off someone’s table by telling them you’ll be paying for two nights, staying one, then going off without paying a penny. Theft, it is. Plain and simple. Tell her to shove that in her pipe and smoke it.’

  The woman Christine deduced to be Delyth James hung up.

  Where was Annie?

  Christine phoned Carol, who answered immediately, ‘Yes, is that you, Christine?’

  ‘Yes. I can’t find Annie,’ said Christine, feeling it best to get to the point. ‘Have you heard from her at all?’

  Carol’s voice communicated concern when she replied, ‘Not a dickie bird since Saturday night’s report. I know she’s not the world’s best at keeping in touch, but I must admit I was a bit surprised to not have heard from her myself.’

  ‘Oh, crikey,’ said Christine. ‘Well, it’s just you and me then, Carol. We’ve got to track her down somehow. The woman at the pub said Annie stayed one night, then left, and of course Mavis can’t help, because she’s off to see her mother, because of her stroke.’

  ‘What stroke?’ asked Carol, sounding even more concerned. ‘I thought I was our communication conduit. I thought I was supposed to be kept in the picture by everyone, then I let you all know what’s going on. How can I do that if no one tells me anything?’ Christine could tell that Carol felt slighted, but that was the least of her worries.

  Christine knew she had to take control, and do it smartly. ‘OK,’ she began, ‘I dare say Mavis might get in touch with you when she’s got a chance, but, until further notice, she’s off this case. She’s getting herself sorted out to get to her mother’s bedside in Dumfries. I’ve got access to all her reports and we had a quick catch-up this morning when she phoned to tell me what was happening. I’m afraid it doesn’t sound as though her mum’s going to make it, though Mavis is being Mavis, and all “nursey” about it, so she won’t say. Her eldest son and his wife are already at the old folks’ home where they are looking after her mother. Anyway, I thought I’d check in with Annie and the landlady at the pub told me she left there yesterday morning.’

  Christine thought she could hear the tension in Carol’s voice when she said, ‘What’s she up to, Christine?’

  ‘Have you got a number for that Saxby house she visited?’

  ‘I haven’t but I can find one, I’m sure. I’ve got all the names of the people there. I’ll get onto it and get back to you. Have the police arrived at Chellingworth Hall yet? Mavis told me in her report from last night that they’d been called there. Something to do with missing false teeth, I gather.’

  ‘Yes, it’s true,’ replied Christine, ‘but let’s not worry about that for now. Can you get onto the Saxby house phone number and maybe try to reach Annie there? I’ll be here handling this end of things. And, look, whatever else happens, let’s not lose touch with each other. I might get stuck talking to the police for ages, but it would be good to know you’re looking for Annie.’

  ‘Will do,’ replied Carol. ‘I’ve got to go, my other line is going, and it might be the people who make the bobble hats. Even if Annie saw a photo of a football team wearing similar ones, I need to check the facts. I’ll let you know when I get the Saxby number and I’ll report back to you on what they say when I phone them. And I’
ll text Mavis to wish her all the best. And I’ll text Annie too, just in case. Got to go, bye.’

  Christine looked at her phone, accusing it of being useless. She felt as though it was now her sole responsibility to try to piece things together.

  A knock at her door told her it was time to meet the police, which she did in the study in the west wing. Two very pleasant, conscientious officers from the Dyfed-Powys police were in attendance, and they took all the details of her actions the previous day. Her response to the questions about why she was at Chellingworth Hall was, as agreed with Henry and Althea, merely that she was a friend of the family. Her father’s title of viscount helped, and she was dismissed rapidly. She managed to glean that the general police position was that the teeth could have been taken months earlier and no one would have been any the wiser. She left without having to mention the dead body or the bobble hat at all, and the police certainly didn’t raise the topics, which allowed her to leave the interview with a certain sense of relief.

  Knowing that Mavis had left already and that Annie was missing, but possibly still in the area, Christine had decided that she would stay until lunchtime, hoping for Carol to come through with a phone number for at least one of the Saxbys, or a message to say that she’d spoken to one of them, then, failing all else, Christine would drive back to London. Though she couldn’t imagine doing that without knowing where Annie was.

  She was very distracted throughout lunch, something that did not go unnoticed by Alexander. Clemmie didn’t join them for the meal, and Christine was surprised to discover that Alexander didn’t seem to care that she wasn’t with them. Puzzled about their relationship, and worried to death about Annie and Mavis, she decided to distract herself.