Murder Keeps No Calendar

by Cathy Ace

  ‘And I’m not going to like living off David,’ added Carol even more unhappily.

  Christine looked around the table at the three sad faces and tried her best to cheer them. ‘Oh come on, it’s not that bad, really, now is it?’

  All three women were thinking roughly the same thing: Yes, it is, and you have no idea, oh you twenty-something, pretty, rich, independent daughter of a viscount. But none of them said anything.

  Christine continued in her cheering attempts. ‘Maybe you could all band together to do . . . something . . .’ Her uncertainly showed in her voice.

  ‘Great idea, Chrissie,’ replied Annie tartly. ‘And what could we three do? I’m a receptionist, Carol’s a Brainiac computer systems manager and Mavis is a nurse – okay, a matron – what could we do?’

  Mavis sounded surprised as she said, ‘That’s what you did, Carol? Computers?’

  Carol nodded.

  ‘Frighteningly clever with them, is this one, but lives in her own little world,’ said Annie, slapping Carol on the arm.

  ‘That would explain a lot,’ said Mavis.

  Christine looked nonplussed, her normal ebullience leaving her for a moment. Her brow furrowed, then her expression cleared. ‘You could poke your noses into things – you’re all good at that.’ She looked gleeful as she added, ‘Carol’s always calling you Miss Nosey Parker,’ she said to Annie, ‘and Annie says you can find out anything by using computers,’ she said to Carol. She concluded by raising her glass toward Mavis and adding, ‘I don’t know what went on when these two met up with you at the Battersea Barracks, but they both said how you frightened them and made them do as they were told, and that they would have confessed anything to you just to keep you off their backs, so there’s that.’

  Annie, Mavis, and Carol all looked aghast; Christine looked triumphant as she concluded, ‘Daddy’s always saying he’s looking for a good investment – I bet I could talk him into investing in you. Hang on a minute; he’d certainly invest in us.’ She adopted her most innocent look as she sipped her wine.

  Annie managed to divert her anger into a hissed, ‘What do you mean “us”?’

  ‘Well, being an underwriter at Lloyds of London is a bit boring, you know; all those men all hovering around me all the time, and I just won the award for best underwriter of the year, so I suppose I’ve finally proved to Daddy that I could do what he always wanted me to do – become a success in the City. If we all worked as a team, I could help; Daddy’s got a little office building in South Kensington we could use. I’m sure he’d let us have it for free, and we could be private investigators. It would be such fun; you lot managed to find out all about that mass murderer, after all, didn’t you?’

  All three women glanced about and ‘shushed’ Christine at once. She continued in a loud whisper, ‘Well, you did. I think we’d all be really good at finding things out about all sorts of things.’

  No one said anything. All three women knew whatever they said next might have implications that could change their lives forever.

  Carol broke their silence. ‘Christine, I don’t think you understand that Annie and I didn’t really find any clues or anything, you know; Matron – Mavis – had done all the medical investigating before we ever got there.’

  ‘But you said Annie just sort of knew he’d done it,’ retorted Christine.

  Annie jumped in. ‘I knew, Chrissie, but I don’t know why I knew. You can’t run a business on that basis.’

  ‘Ach, you knew because you’re good at spotting people for what they truly are, Annie Parker,’ interrupted Mavis. ‘I had my suspicions, and I pride myself I’m a good judge of character, but I couldn’t work out how on earth he’d done it; he’d managed to make one of the most dangerous poisons in the world, right there, in his allotment shed. Who’d have thought it?’

  ‘In any case,’ said Carol, determined to make her initial point, ‘David and I have agreed it’s best for me to take a break; we desperately want children, and I’m not getting any younger. I’m thirty-three now and my biological clock is ticking very loudly.’

  ‘Oh rubbish,’ interrupted Annie, ‘you’ve got years ahead of you for childbearing, and you could be our office manager, you’d be good at that. Just stay at the office and keep us all organized, and do all the computer research; it would be like falling off a log for you after running the office for that huge company.’

  ‘Well, I’d have to talk to David about it,’ Carol was hesitant.

  ‘I’ve a good knowledge of humanity,’ said Mavis firmly, ‘I’ve raised two boys, managed to get my nursing qualifications later in life, and have nursed all sorts – so I sort of know people, inside and out; that’s useful. And despite the fact I’m a good deal older than all of you, I’m no less sharp than I used to be.’

  ‘You’re also great at putting people in their place,’ added Annie, hurriedly followed by, ‘now don’t get me wrong, Mavis – I mean that in a good way – but I bet you can be a charmer too, if you need to be.’

  ‘Ach, I’d leave the charming to this wee thing,’ replied Mavis, nodding her head toward Christine. ‘I bet she’d get anything out of any man in five minutes flat.’

  Christine smiled, blushed, and replied, ‘It might take ten.’ She giggled.

  ‘And what about me?’ asked Annie loudly. ‘What am I good at then?’

  ‘You?’ asked Mavis. Annie nodded. ‘I suspect you’d be good at just about anything you put your mind to. You certainly know people, and I’ll wager you’ve acted like a concierge for your bosses all these years – I bet there’s nothing you can’t find out about, or get hold of in a pinch, is there?’

  ‘And you’re a natural natterer,’ added Carol. ‘Something about you makes people want to tell you all sorts of stuff. That’s got to be useful for an investigator, hasn’t it?’

  Annie thought about it for a moment and answered brightly, ‘You know, you’re right. Without me, those idiots at CFK wouldn’t be able to find their own backsides with two hands and a torch; I’ve fixed things they thought couldn’t be fixed, got hold of un-gettable delicacies and gifts for their clients, wives – and even mistresses – over the years. You’re right, Mavis, if there’s anyone who can work out how to find the right person to ask about something, it’s me. But I don’t know about what you said, Carol; I just like chatting to people. Everyone’s got a story, in’t they? But ta, both; I’ve been feeling a bit lost since they told me I’m out on my ear, and you’ve perked me right up.’

  Annie patted Mavis’s hand with real gratitude, and Mavis’s face broke into a broad smile – the first one Annie had seen her crack since they’d met.

  ‘See,’ chimed in Christine, ‘I knew I was right; we could all work together and it would be fun. We’ve all got the time on our hands, and if it’s Daddy’s money, we’re not taking much of a financial risk, are we?’

  ‘Do you really think he’d let us have an office for free?’ asked Carol tentatively.

  ‘Daddy’ll do pretty much anything I ask him to,’ replied Christine in a matter of fact tone.

  ‘So, if we’re going to become private investigators,’ added Carol, ‘don’t we have to get qualified, or something? Join some sort of an association?’

  ‘A-ha!’ exclaimed Annie. ‘That’s why you should be the business manager – business first!’

  A general chuckle ran around the table.

  Christine was excited. ‘So, Annie can do finding things out and knowing people; Mavis can do medical stuff and putting the frighteners on; Carol can run the business end of things and using computers, and I can wangle things out of people we need to “use”. It all sounds great, ladies. So, what shall we call ourselves?’

  ‘Now hang on a minute,’ replied Annie tartly, ‘don’t go designing the letterhead when we haven’t even agreed—’

  ‘Ach, come on, live a little,’ interrupted Mavis, unexpectedly. ‘I know you all think I’m a bit of an old witch, but I beli
eve we could make a go of it. And I think we should call ourselves . . .’ She hesitated then suggested, ‘Something Scottish; it’ll have a trustworthy ring to it.’

  ‘No Mavis,’ replied Annie, ‘we’ll be based in London, and we’re all English except you, so it should be something English – something like English Rose Investigations, except that’s far too floral and girly—’

  ‘Hang on a minute,’ said Carol firmly. ‘You should know better than to say that, Annie. I’m not English, I’m Welsh. So what about something Welsh? Daffodil Investigations? Or what about The Four Dragons?’

  Christine replied, ‘I’m not convinced by anything anyone’s said so far, but it’s just dawned on me that – with me being Irish – we could do it like the rugby: Four Nations Investigations. Oh, that sort of rhymes. How about it?’

  ‘It doesn’t rhyme, dear, it scans,’ replied Mavis, ‘and it’s not four nations any more, it’s six now, as any real rugby fan would know, so that wouldnae make sense.’

  ‘What about our initials?’ asked Carol. ‘There’s P,M,H, and W-S for our last names; no that doesn’t work because of you, Christine. What about C,C,A and M? Can we make something of that?’

  ‘I know – WISE Investigations,’ said Christine with enthusiasm.

  Annie remarked, ‘It’s not very personal, Chrissie, is it darlin’? I like Four Nations meself.’

  ‘But it is four nations,’ replied Christine enthusiastically. ‘Wales, Ireland, Scotland and England, W.I.S.E. And it means – well, wise . . . you know; clever. People would want to hire clever investigators, wouldn’t they?’

  All three women stared at Christine with surprise.

  Annie’s felt compelled to comment, ‘Clever girl, Chrissie.’

  ‘Oh, it’s nothing really,’ responded Christine shyly. ‘Daddy’s always made me play word games with him, and we do them sometimes at Mensa meetings too—’

  ‘You’re in Mensa?’ exclaimed Annie on behalf of the three women who found it hard to believe Christine could be so pretty, so rich, so dizzy, and so bright.

  ‘Yes. That’s not bad, is it?’ Christine suddenly seemed uncertain.

  ‘Ach, no, it’s no’ bad, my dear,’ replied Mavis gently, ‘we’re all just wondering what other hidden talents you might have.’

  ‘I knit rather well,’ offered Christine, ‘but I can’t see how that would be useful for a private investigator.’

  The little group laughed, and Christine suddenly felt a level of acceptance she’d found it difficult to achieve her whole life. She liked it. These women were going to let her be herself; how wonderful.

  Mavis said, ‘Anyway, as for the name – WISE Investigations – aye, I like it, but should we no’ make ourselves sound a bit more ladylike? What about making sure our potential clients know how careful we’ll be about their information? I think it’s better if we offer to make enquiries, rather than to merely investigate.’

  ‘And we should say something about confidentiality in the name, too,’ added Carol.

  ‘Don’t you think that all becomes a bit too much?’ said Annie. ‘What about WISE Enquiries? Just that.’

  ‘If we’re going to incorporate, we’ll have to get a name search done,’ said Carol.

  ‘Aye, well let’s do at least that much then,’ agreed Mavis, and held her glass toward the center of the table. ‘I’m up for it – what about you lot?’

  As Christine, Annie, and Carol also raised their glasses they let out a joint cheer – ‘To WISE Enquiries!’

  ‘Oh – and another thing,’ added Christine as she rose to return to the bar, ‘my second cousin Sophie is having a weekend party at her estate in Northamptonshire for Valentine’s Day and she was wittering on about jewelry going missing when she was at some parties in Northumberland at Christmas, and in Leicestershire at the New Year; she was asking me what I thought she should do about it. How about I get us all invites and we go and check it out? David could come too, to keep an eye on you, Carol. It might turn out to be the first case for the women of the WISE Enquiries agency; what do you think?’

  The women looked at each other and could feel the excitement crackling between them – Valentine’s Day was just a couple of weeks away – could they do it?

  DECEMBER

  Tidings of Comfort and Joy

  ‘John Evans is dead. It’s in the newspaper. It must be true. Poor dab.’ Gladys Pritchard waved the South Wales Evening Post in front of her husband.

  ‘Good riddance,’ muttered her spouse.

  Gladys gave him a sour look over her glasses. ‘Died peacefully last Thursday in Morriston Hospital, it says. We only visited him the night before.’

  ‘I know. I was there with you.’

  ‘Looked bad then, he did, with all those tubes poking out of him. Service is in a fortnight. It’ll take all that time because of Christmas, I expect.’

  Ivor Pritchard shoved the sleeves of the baggy sweater Gladys had knitted for him many Christmases earlier up his desiccated arms, exposing the dark blue stain that had once been an impressive tattoo of an anchor swathed in a chain. ‘We’re not going,’ he said with finality.

  Gladys made a small ‘O’ with her lips as she took off her glasses. ‘What will people say if we don’t go, Ivor? He lived next door to us for nearly forty years. It’ll be expected.’

  Her husband dropped his spoon into his dish, atop a mound of golden carrot-coins – the remains of his lamb stew. ‘If you think I’m going to sit in that blinkin’ crematorium in the middle of winter and listen to people going on and on about him being a wonderful person, you’ve got another think coming. Half of Swansea will be there. They won’t miss us.’

  ‘Half of South Wales will be there, given the number of choirs he belonged to over the years. They’ll all turn out for the singing, if nothing else. And they will miss us, Ivor. Everyone in the street will go. We can’t not go. They all thought we liked him. They wouldn’t know anything about the wall. No one has any idea about how much of a misery he made our lives.’ Gladys folded her arms as tightly as possible over her ample bosom.

  ‘Next door but one down. She probably knows.’

  Gladys shrugged. ‘Well, she might. They shared a wall too. Mind you, she’s as deaf as a post nowadays, so it makes no difference to her any more. Not like me. My hearing’s so sensitive. Eat those carrots; they’re good for you.’

  Ivor knew his wife was right about her hearing; Gladys could have heard a pin drop onto the sheepskin rug in the next room during a thunderstorm. He suspected she might be right about the carrots too. ‘Never got it as bad as us, though, did she? They had his stairs between his living room and her wall to give her a bit of a buffer. Always stood right next to our wall, he did. Scales? I’ll give him scales.’ Ivor dutifully chased the remaining vegetables around his bowl.

  ‘Now, now, Ivor, stop it. John’s dead. Gone. No more scales. No more rehearsals of three or four lines of one song for hours on end. No more “la-la-la, ne-ne-ne, la-la-la” exercises. Just a nice bit of peace and quiet in our own home. Lovely, isn’t it?’ Gladys Pritchard sat back with a look of pure pleasure on her face.

  Ivor wiped his mouth with the side of his hand and arched his back in the creaking chair. ‘Fan-flamin’-tastic. If he’d sung that “Myfanwy” once, he’d sung it a thousand times. I never want to hear that song again. I used to love it; now I can’t even stand the thought of it.’

  ‘You can’t say he didn’t have a good voice.’ Gladys folded the newspaper and placed it on the table.

  ‘I can, and I will. Maybe years ago it wasn’t so bad, but since he turned seventy? Terrible! They’d have chucked him out of the choir if he hadn’t been their treasurer for umpteen years.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know, Ivor, they were always short of tenors. They even asked you once, remember?’

  Ivor laughed loudly. ‘Indeed I do. I suppose they must have been desperate; I couldn’t carry a tune if you gave me a bucket. Besides, tha
t last concert they gave at Tabernacle Chapel? Modern rubbish. Nice bit of Ivor Novello never goes amiss. You think they’d know that for the likes of us around here. And I’m not saying that just because I’m named after him.’

  Gladys cleared the kitchen table then rolled the dishes around in her new yellow washing-up bowl. ‘I wonder what his boys will do with the house,’ she mused. ‘Sell it, I expect. They’ve got their own places, so why would they want his?’

  ‘You’re right,’ replied her husband. ‘Not boys now, though, are they? Got to be in their fifties these days. They’ve both got posh houses down near the Mumbles, I hear. What would they want with one of these little terraced boxes? Good enough for the likes of us, they are, but them? No way. Gone up in the world they have.’

  Gladys smiled, placing the clean dishes on the draining board. ‘They’ve done very well for themselves, have David and Gerald. Both married nice girls, and all their children always seemed well-behaved. You know, when they used to visit.’

  ‘Never saw any of them at John’s flamin’ concerts, did you? All but forced us to buy tickets, he did, but he let them get away with not going. You’d think his family would be a bit more supportive of him and his blinkin’ singing, wouldn’t you?’

  Gladys filled the kettle, and put it onto the gas ring to boil. ‘Go through to the living room, love; I’ll bring you a cuppa when it’s brewed. Take the paper to read while you’re waiting for the local news on the telly. I’ll wipe these dishes and put them away so I can sit down and enjoy Coronation Street later. Go on now, out of my way.’

  The aged couple shared a companionable hug, then Ivor shuffled out of the kitchen on carpet-slippered feet. He was no longer the imposing man he’d been when he’d worked at Swansea Docks; decades of labor had wrecked his back, though he still did what he could around the house. They’d bought it a short time after they’d married, forty-eight years earlier.

  ‘Not long till it starts,’ said his wife, finally settling into her armchair beside her husband. ‘Look forward to The Street, I do.’