The Case of the Dotty Dowager

by Cathy Ace

‘Oh, yes,’ replied Delyth, smiling. ‘Always helping people out, is our Jacko. You know, like Tristan, and always doing his best for me and Michael, that’s our son, and a lot of the youngsters in these parts. He does so much for people and never says nothing about it. Out till all hours he is, in the van and everything, helping people. Ah, love him. He’s a good man.’

  ‘I’m sure he is,’ replied Alexander. ‘And your son too, no doubt. Is he here by any chance? Might he know something?’

  Delyth smiled. ‘Oh, no, he’s not here these days. Lives in London now, he does. In fact, Jacko’s going to drop in on him while he’s there, that’s why he stayed over last night. Likes to do that.’ She looked at her watch. ‘I bet they’ll have had a nice pub lunch together, somewhere. Poor dab, Jacko misses his boy a lot, he does. Not that I don’t, but there’s nothing here for him, you see. Michael, I mean. So many more chances for him to make a go of it in London. Not that he’s found a job yet, but he will, I’m sure of it. Mind you, he comes back to see his mam now and again. Like his dad in that respect – hard on the outside, big softy on the inside.’

  ‘We all are, Mrs James,’ replied Alexander with a grin, squeezing Christine’s shoulder in a boy-friendly way. ‘Aren’t we, Chrissy?’

  Christine played along. ‘Well, you certainly are, Alex. Does your son have to share a place in London?’ she asked as chattily as she could. ‘Whereabouts is he, exactly? I live in west London and I know it’s a very expensive place for one to live alone.’

  Delyth leaned on the bar, clearly happy to be chatting about her beloved son, rather than a missing guest. ‘Oh, you’re not wrong there. But he’s lucky. Jacko’s still got family in the East End, somewhere around Bethnal Green, not that I know it that well, and Michael stays with them. So Jacko gets to see lots of family when he visits there and they’ve got room for him too, when he wants. Which I know he enjoys. He works so hard here, it’s only fair he gets a bit of a break now and again. Though I wasn’t expecting him to go anywhere yesterday, I must say. But there, Tris must have got wind of a good deal and off they went to get it. It happens like that, sometimes. Funny old world, antiques. Drive all over the country, they do, though mainly to London and, you know, places like Dover and so forth. All international now, it is.’

  As Delyth mentioned international ports, Christine’s stomach clenched. It hadn’t occurred to her that Annie might have been spirited out of the country.

  Alexander began to make as though to steer Christine away from the bar by her shoulders. ‘Well, I think we’d better get going ourselves, Mrs James. I expect your friend Annie will turn up somewhere, darling. Maybe she’s gone to visit her friends the Saxbys again. Remember she mentioned them to you?’

  ‘Oh, no, she won’t be there,’ said Delyth just before the couple turned to go. ‘When the postman came in this morning he said he’d seen them and they’d asked him to hang on to their post for a while. Off to Spain tonight, or somewhere, he said. Or was it America? I can’t remember. Always going off somewhere they are. Lucky devils. And Olive always sends a postcard, bless her. She knows how much I like to get cards from people when they go away. Look, there’s the last one she sent.’ She waved her arm toward a collection of postcards pinned to the wall behind the bar. ‘Mind you, what they went to Houston for is beyond me. She said it was a bit boring. They couldn’t even find anything pretty for the photo on the card. See? It’s just all buildings and motorways, by the looks of it.’

  Christine and Alexander followed the woman’s gaze and saw a collection of brightly colored shots from beaches, tourist attractions and landscapes around the world. One was, indeed, from Houston, and the landlady was correct, the photograph made it look like a very unappealing place comprising skyscrapers and spaghetti-like roads.

  ‘I hope they have a lovely time,’ said Alexander, now pushing Christine toward the door. ‘Thanks for your help.’

  ‘Why are you pushing me?’ snapped Christine as they exited the pub. ‘Stop it.’

  Alexander removed his arm and apologized. ‘We need to go to London, now,’ he said firmly.

  ‘Yes, I understand that, Alexander. I am quite capable of putting two and two together, you know. Annie’s not here. I am not stupid, I’m worried. Very. About Annie. I know I should be more concerned about the dead body that Althea saw, but, for now, Annie’s my priority.’ Christine heard her tone and knew it was harsher than she’d meant it to be, but she was so used to men thinking that it was impossible for her to be rich, well-born, beautiful and intelligent, that it was her default setting. ‘I wonder why Olive Saxby didn’t mention that she was leaving the area when I spoke to her this morning,’ she mused.

  Alexander marched toward his car, with Christine following. Once there he opened the door and then replied, ‘It might have been perfectly innocent, in that it’s not something one would normally tell a complete stranger on the telephone, or she might be part of an incredibly complex, nefarious plot of some sort. I don’t know. But what I do know is that I am getting back to town as fast as I can, now. I suggest you do the same. Drive safely. I’ve got your mobile number. I’ll be in touch.’

  Christine sounded sulky as she replied, ‘Yes. I suppose there’s not much point hanging about here. Though I do wonder if I should talk to the police about Annie being missing.’ With Mavis dealing with the possible loss of her mother and Carol in London, Christine felt quite alone.

  ‘Don’t tell them,’ said Alexander forcefully. ‘Not yet, anyway. Get yourself back to your place in London, then phone me. I might have some news.’

  Christine brightened, but was puzzled. ‘Really?’

  Alexander nodded. ‘I hope so.’ He curled his tall frame into the low, sleek car. As it purred out of the parking area, Christine acknow-ledged that she was sad to see him go. Climbing into her own vehicle, she plugged in her tablet to charge as she drove, and buckled up. She allowed herself a moment to regard her reflection in the rearview mirror. She looked as worried as she felt. But determined, too. She wondered why, as an independent young woman, she’d allowed herself to come to feel as though she was relying upon a man so quickly. Then, cross with herself, she pulled out onto the road and began to head for London.

  THIRTY-TWO

  When Annie Parker awoke, she knew she was still lying on the mattress in the pub cellar, or whatever it was, but, this time, everything was pitch black. She panicked. Then she tensed. She knew with certainty that someone was standing close by. She flailed her arms as someone grabbed her and stuck something across her mouth. She struggled, but she could only make loud humming noises through her nose. A graveled voice whispered very close to her ear, ‘If you want to live, you’ll stop struggling and do exactly as I say. Now!’

  She continued to push against her assailant, but he quickly bound her hands with something which, although tight, didn’t cut into her flesh. Then he bound her feet. Next he wrapped a cloth around her eyes. All she’d had a chance to glimpse in the darkness was the fact that the man was large, evidently strong, was wearing a dark hoodie and had something obscuring his face. A balaclava, she was sure of it.

  Annie was surprised when the big, strong man picked her up like a sack of potatoes and slung her over his shoulder. Completely disoriented, she decided that the best thing to do was allow her body to become as limp as possible, and make herself a dead weight. When that achieved nothing, she wriggled and writhed, though she knew that the most likely outcome was that the man would drop her, and then she’d be on the floor as helpless as a caterpillar.

  Eventually, having felt herself being carried up some stairs, Annie saw no change in the level of light through her hood. It might have been day or night, for all she knew. Then she felt the rush of cold air hit the exposed parts of her arms and legs. I’m outside. She inhaled the fresh air through her nostrils as hard as she could, though not much of it reached her through the thick cloth that wrapped her head. In the distance she heard a siren. Really? A siren in Anwen-by-Wye?

  T
hen she heard something that any Londoner would recognize instantly – a Tube train passed by, not far away. Annie was immediately reminded of the scene from one of her favorite films, The Ipcress File, when Michael Caine escapes from what he believes to be a place of captivity somewhere in an Eastern Bloc country to see the most welcome sight he can imagine on the street – an illuminated London Transport sign, telling him he’s on his home turf.

  Annie’s heart swelled with joy. I haven’t been in Wales all this time, I’ve been in London. I’m home! The realization hit Annie just as she felt herself being lowered onto a hard, cold, metallic surface. She knew she was being placed in the back of a van or lorry of some sort. She felt the shudder of the man jumping into the back of the vehicle. He pulled her to a corner, where he surrounded her with what felt like blankets of some sort.

  ‘You’re going to feel me inject you with something,’ said the disembodied voice.

  Annie recoiled and began to squirm and groan again. Don’t move me. I’m in London; don’t take me back to Wales.

  ‘Stop it, or this’ll hurt,’ he shouted.

  She knew he meant business. He grabbed her arm and she felt pressure, then a stinging sensation. Annie’s insides clenched and she screamed as best she could through her nose. Oh, Gordon Bennett, please let it not kill me.

  ‘I need you to sleep,’ said the man bleakly. ‘And you’ll be grateful you did,’ he added.

  Annie’s head swam. She vaguely felt the hood being removed from her head and caught a glimpse of daylight, then she was aware of pressure as the man pulled the tape from her mouth, but it didn’t hurt a bit.

  She was sitting on the bank of her beloved Thames, which was now no more than a bubbling stream, dangling her feet in the cool water while waiting for Eustelle to bring her a raspberry ripple ice cream. It was a sunny day and her teddy was beside her. She was happy.

  THIRTY-THREE

  ‘Mother, the art policeman will be visiting you shortly. I do not think this is the best time for you to venture out with McFli.’ Henry sounded cross as he addressed the dowager on the telephone.

  ‘I have been held captive in my own home for months, Henry,’ retorted his mother firmly. ‘Since our last open day on Sunday, I had to spend yesterday up at the hall with you, being poked and prodded by real policemen, so this is only the second day I have had a chance to venture beyond the walls without bumping into all sorts of people. Now that the torrential rain has subsided, I shall be walking with McFli. It cannot be beyond the abilities of a policeman to find one elderly lady and a dog on the estate, even if this one is an art expert, not a proper copper.’ Althea pushed the button to disconnect from her son’s voice and sighed at McFli, who sat at her feet looking excited.

  ‘Yes, we will. Momentarily,’ she said to her dog, then pushed herself to a standing position and made for the door. McFli scrambled behind her making squeaking, wheezing noises. Althea could see that he was smiling as broadly as she at the prospect of being able to wander freely across the landscape. She pulled on her walking jacket, grabbed the gnarled old stick she always took on her expeditions, and tied a scarf about her head. Her stout shoes were equal to anything the final, muddy days of September could throw at her, she decided. The heavens had opened around eight o’clock the previous evening, and she’d imagined that many people were considering whether it was time to build an ark, so heavily had the rain been falling for more than twelve hours. Opening the front door, McFli shot out ahead of her, turning in circles with delight as his mistress caught up with him. Althea smiled at his puppy-like antics, which belied his age.

  Walking through the gate set into the walled garden of the Dower House that Tuesday morning felt, to Althea Twyst, as though she were escaping a prison. She set forth, in the cool, wan sunlight, to enjoy the glories of nature. She was looking forward to roaming about for at least a few hours. Adequate seating set about the place was one of the only perks of having opened the estate to the public, so she knew she could take rests when she needed. Neither she nor McFli were as spry as they had once been, though he continued to look as though he was possessed of boundless energy as he frolicked away from her toward the lower copse.

  She’d been walking for no more than ten minutes when McFli romped back to her with a trophy in his mouth. Dropping it at her feet he yapped with excitement. Seeing something blue in the grass, Althea knew he hadn’t brought her a half-eaten rat, which he was wont to do on occasion.

  ‘Thank you, McFli,’ she praised, then bent slowly to examine her gift. It was part of a ripped, blue, rubber glove. Althea picked it up, much to McFli’s delight. It was a puzzling item for him to have found and her immediate response was to be glad that he hadn’t swallowed it.

  ‘We’ve placed enough waste bins for people to put their rubbish in, haven’t we, McFli?’ said the dowager. ‘Now where did you find this?’

  Once again McFli shot into the copse and Althea set off after him. His yapping led her to him. He had the rest of the blue glove in his mouth, but she was horrified to note that it contained a hand, a brown hand, which was still attached to an arm, which poked up from the wet ground in the hollow.

  ‘Come along now, McFli, put it down. Down!’ she ordered, and the happy little creature let the hand drop onto the ground. With his ears down, he trotted to Althea’s side. She praised him heartily, then turned and slapped her thigh. ‘Come along home,’ she said, and began to make her way back toward the Dower House to alert someone to what they had discovered.

  It took about an hour, all in all, for the police vehicles to arrive. The first on the scene had been the art policeman, who’d turned out to be quite a dish, thought the dowager. He’d followed her directions to the copse, then he’d made things happen.

  Once again confined to her home, Althea was now being attended to by her frantic son who, once he discovered that a body had been located, was overcome with guilt at ever having doubted his mother.

  By dinner time on Tuesday, Althea and Henry Twyst had been informed that the cadaver she and McFli had discovered was that of a young man, and that he had probably been dead for more than ten days. It appeared that he had been buried in the copse under a good covering of soil, but that the rain of the previous night had run down the hill at such a rate that a small stream had developed and washed away enough of the earth mounded on top of him to expose a hand, which McFli had scented. The pleasant policeman with an interest in art had been replaced by a somewhat abrupt detective whose accent made it clear he originally hailed from Birmingham, though he was now some sort of high-up in the Dyfed-Powys police force.

  He’d put Henry through the ringer. At least, that was what Henry had told his mother. She’d thought him quite pleasant, if brusque. Already up-to-date with the discovery of the bloodied bobble hat and the dowager’s claims of having seen a dead body in her home, the senior policeman had taken time to explain that she didn’t need to look at photographs of the dead man because it would be too upsetting, so he only showed her photographs of the man’s clothing, because he said that the condition of the body was poor.

  Althea’s response of, ‘Yes, that looks like what the body was wearing when it lay on my hearthrug. I expect the poor devil is black with putrefaction if he’s been in the damp soil for a fortnight,’ took the police officer aback and utterly shocked Henry.

  The interview with Mary Wilson, the cook, delayed dinner, but she provided sandwiches for all the police on the estate, which the detective ate while he interviewed Jennifer Newbury and Ian Cottesloe. Upon taking his leave of the Twysts – Henry had decided to stay with his mother overnight in case she felt any ill effects after her shock – the detective was tight-lipped. He’d taken the contact details of the WISE Enquiries Agency from Henry and said he would be following up with them.

  ‘Of course, we should tell the women that the police will be contacting them about the dead man, Henry,’ said Althea to her son as they finished dinner. ‘Why on earth would we not inform a group of profess
ionals you hired to investigate an incident that the incident has seen such tragic developments?’

  ‘I don’t think the police would care for our doing that, Mother,’ replied Henry.

  ‘Tommyrot!’

  ‘What I cannot fathom,’ mused Henry, ‘is why the criminals would try to hide the body here, on the estate. Why would they do that? Why wouldn’t they take it away with them to … dispose of … somewhere?’

  ‘Henry, look at where we are,’ replied his mother. ‘These people could not have arrived at the Dower House in a motor vehicle – it would have been far too conspicuous. They must have walked. We are sitting in the middle of a six-thousand-acre estate. Finding themselves with a dead body to conceal, what were they to do? Carry it away with them? Much better to let the poor man roll down the hill to the copse and cover him over with soil down there. If it hadn’t been for the rain last night, their plan might have worked.’

  ‘It’s terrible,’ said Henry blackly.

  ‘That a man died, or that the people who killed him had the temerity to dump his body on our land?’ Althea tutted at her son. ‘I shall telephone Mavis right away. She needs to know what’s going on. I’d like to find out how her mother’s recovery is progressing, in any case. I rather think Mavis feared the worst. If death is the worst thing that can happen to us. I can see myself wanting to be turned off, or unhooked, or whatever it is one does, rather than existing as a vegetable in a stinking bed for months on end.’

  ‘How can you say such a thing, Mother?’ bleated Henry. ‘I would never do that to you.’

  Althea sighed and stared at her son. ‘I’m afraid you might not, but you need to know that would be my wish, should I come to it. But maybe I had better enquire with our solicitors about what I can do to ensure that choice is my own, not yours to make.’

  ‘Mother, why are you speaking this way? Is there something you’re not telling me?’ Henry looked truly alarmed.