Rona gave her a hug. ‘Any time, you know that. I’ll ring you this evening and see how you’re doing.’
‘OK. Are my eyes red?’
‘Not very, but as your car’s at the gate you’ve only got to get down the path, and I doubt if any film directors are hiding in the bushes.’
‘Hugh?’ Max asked resignedly, without looking up from his paper.
‘Hugh,’ Rona confirmed.
‘What now?’
‘He’s moving back, and Linz has taken fright.’
‘She should have thought of that before.’
‘Not much help telling her that, is it?’
‘I guess not. Ah well, no doubt they’ll sort it out between them.’
‘What a convenient philosophy,’ Rona commented, and started to clear the table.
Beth Spencer reread the paragraph in the Courier.
Rumours have reached us that biographer Rona Parish will be adding to the wealth of material already commissioned for next year’s celebrations. Parish made headlines earlier this year during her aborted biography of thriller writer Theo Harvey, when she uncovered the fact that, appropriately enough, he had himself been murdered. It will be interesting to see what skeletons she can unearth in our cupboard!
Beth raised her head and stared unseeingly through the window. This woman had apparently solved one murder. She was a journalist, and no doubt had contacts not available to herself. Was there, Beth wondered, the slightest possibility that she would listen to her insistence that Alan was innocent, and help her to prove it? It had to be worth a try.
Five
Rona had left home at eight thirty, but heavy traffic in and around Marsborough caused the usual delays, and it was almost eleven when she arrived at Buckford.
She had arranged with Nuala Banks that on arrival she would, if possible, claim a parking space and drop off her suitcase at the house. Nuala herself was out at work, but her father, leaning heavily on a Zimmer, answered her ring and, having left the case in her room, Rona went straight out again. Max had warned her that B&B owners did not want you in their homes between nine and five. In any case, after speaking to Catherine Bishop she’d phoned the local schools and arranged a series of appointments beginning at eleven thirty.
However, the day proved not to be as interesting as she’d hoped. Back in her room that evening, she tried to sort out a mélange of impressions of corridors, chalky blackboards and slightly harassed heads in overcrowded studies. The private kindergarten – presumably the one Dinah had attended – alone stood out clearly, since it was in a converted private house, the graciously proportioned rooms mutilated by makeshift divisions to form a series of classrooms. It seemed some of the tots boarded; Miss Pierson, the headmistress, told her they were the children of army or diplomatic families based abroad. She provided Rona with a prospectus and a copy of the school magazine, neither of which contained much that she could use. However, she promised the school would receive an honourable mention, and that a photographer would be in touch later.
She had decided to leave St Stephen’s until after speaking to Catherine Bishop, but there seemed little to choose between the rest of them. Her query about former pupils or unusual incidents for the most part produced blank looks, and clearly several of the heads thought she was wasting their time. Consequently she was feeling slightly dispirited when she went down to join the Banks family for supper.
Nuala’s father, whom she’d met briefly that morning, added little to the conversation, whether from shyness or a taciturn nature Rona could not be sure. His face was deeply furrowed, possibly from pain following his injuries, possibly from the strains of life generally. Young Will was also quiet – unusually, Rona suspected. No doubt he would open up when he felt he knew her. It was therefore left to Nuala to make conversation, and this she gallantly tried to do.
Supper was home-made leek and potato soup, followed by pork pie and salad. In deference to the guest, dessert was a rather elaborate trifle.
‘Mr Breen mentioned some people who might be willing to help me,’ Rona began, breaking a short silence. ‘I’ve tracked down one of them in Marsborough, but the other was an old lady who I think he said lived opposite the church.’
That caught the attention of the other two, who both looked up, Will exclaiming, ‘Auntie Edna!’
Rona turned to Nuala, who explained, ‘That would be my aunt, Miss Rosebury. She’s lived here all her life and not much escapes her. Or at least, it didn’t used to.’ She paused. ‘As a matter of fact, we’re a little anxious about her. She’s become increasingly frail since Christmas, and she didn’t arrive for tea yesterday, as she always does on Sundays. When I went to find her, she said she thought it was Saturday, and seemed very vague and disorientated. I’m wondering if she’s had a minor stroke, but she refuses point-blank to see the doctor.’
Rona felt a stab of disappointment, mixed, after her less than satisfactory day, with frustration. She hoped all her leads weren’t going to fizzle away. ‘I wouldn’t want to worry her if she’s not well,’ she said tentatively.
‘Actually,’ Nuala replied, ‘it would probably do her good. A new face might stimulate her, and talking to you could help her to remember things. In any case,’ she added frankly, ‘I’d be glad of your opinion. If you also think she’s not well, I’ll ask the doctor to call round. I’ll phone later if you like, and ask if she’ll see you. Would tomorrow be all right?’
‘The morning would be fine, thanks.’
The local paper was lying on the table as she crossed the hall and, seeing her glance at it, Nuala handed it to her.
‘I kept this for you, because there’s a paragraph about you. I thought I’d heard your name before, and of course I remember where, now.’
‘What does it say?’ Rona asked uneasily.
‘That you discovered that writer had been murdered, and they wondered what skeletons you’d find in our closet.’
Rona made a face. ‘What a reputation!’
Up in her room, she ignored the reproachful laptop and settled in the armchair with the paper, finding the relevant paragraph on the third page of the main section. There was no byline, and it contained little more than Nuala had said. The front page was given over to the crime wave that had hit the town; someone had been attacked and mugged over the weekend, making it the second incident in as many days, and this time the victim had ended up in hospital.
The rest of the paper covered a wide range of local-interest subjects including school concerts, the opening of a new supermarket and a batch of weddings. Conscious of the hours to fill until bedtime, Rona read every paragraph, ending with a reread of the one on herself. It would do no harm, she thought, to have a word with the reporter who had written it.
She stood up, stretched, and leant on the window sill, looking out across the road to the garden beyond the wall.
Immediately, however, she drew back; Gordon Breen was walking there with a blonde woman who was doubtless his wife. They seemed to be having an animated discussion on the flowers in the border, and Rona could hear the faint sound of their voices through the open window. She watched them for a moment, then reluctantly turned away and returned to the chair. It was only eight thirty, another hour before she could phone Max. If only she’d had Gus with her, she could have taken him for a walk, but she couldn’t be bothered to make the effort for herself. She’d spent most of the day walking round Buckford anyway. Perhaps, she thought ruefully as she retrieved her library book from her case, she’d been too quick to decline the offer of the kitchen TV.
An hour or so later, just as Rona judged Max’s classes would have finished, Nuala tapped on her door. ‘I’ve spoken to my aunt and she says she’ll be pleased to see you. It’s possible, though, that she’ll have forgotten by tomorrow, so I’ll take you over and introduce you on my way to work.’
Rona thanked her, assured her she had everything she needed, and, as the door closed behind her, took out her mobile.
‘How’s
Gus?’ she asked, when she’d filled Max in on her day.
‘OK, but he’s obviously expecting you to arrive any minute to collect him. His ears prick every time someone walks past. He’ll be fine; I’m just about to take him out for a run.’
‘There’s a snippet about me in the local rag,’ Rona said, and immediately wished she hadn’t.
‘What did it say?’ Max’s voice had sharpened.
‘Oh – just that I was going to add to the mass of writing about the octocentenary.’
‘And no doubt happening to mention that you’d unmasked Theo Harvey’s killer?’
‘Well, something along those lines.’
‘God, when will people forget that? Just as well your local murderer’s safely behind bars.’
‘This is an entirely different scenario,’ Rona assured him. ‘I’m not personally involved this time.’
‘Mind you stay that way.’
It was still early when they finished speaking, but Rona was tired after her long day. The bathroom was likely to be vacant at this time; she’d have a bath to relax her and take the chance of an early night.
‘You said you’re on your way to work,’ Rona remarked, as she and Nuala walked the length of Parsonage Place and turned into the cobbled alleyway. ‘Is that the church cleaning?’
‘Goodness no; there’s a rota for that, and I only do it once a month. I have a part-time job, temping for a secretarial agency. It’s varied and interesting, and as I only work nine thirty to twelve thirty, I’m home to cook lunch for Dad and be there when Will gets in. Occasionally there isn’t any work – there wasn’t last week – but that gives me a chance to get on with the housework. I’m sorry it’s an early start for you, but it won’t worry Aunt Edna. She’s up at six every morning.’
As they crossed the square towards the little house with its dipping eaves, Rona thought she made out a figure at the window, but it had gone by the time they reached the pavement. Nuala had a key, and after a warning press on the bell, she opened the door and called out, ‘Auntie? I’ve brought someone to see you.’
No one came into the hall, and Nuala led the way to the door on the right that opened into the front room. A gaunt, bent figure was standing just short of the window, staring across the room at them, and Rona’s heart sank. Nuala went quickly over, took the old lady’s arm and led her slowly back to her chair. ‘Auntie, this is Mrs Allerdyce – I mean Ms Parish.’
‘Well, which is it?’ the old lady demanded waspishly. ‘There’s only one of them that I can see.’
Rona smiled and came forward. ‘I know it’s confusing, Miss Rosebury. Officially I’m Mrs Allerdyce, but since, as my father says, I’m too independent for my own good, I prefer to be known by my maiden name – which I also use professionally. Please just call me Rona.’
Miss Rosebury pursed her mouth, which might be taken as disapproval, and Nuala said uncertainly, ‘You’ll be all right, Auntie? Ms Parish would like to hear the tales you’re always telling us, about how it was when you were young, and the ghosts and things. Perhaps even that scandal!’ she added with a smile.
The old woman’s head reared up. ‘What scandal? What are you talking about?’
‘The one you mentioned last week, that happened recently. I’m sure she’d like to hear about it.’ Nuala waited, but when there was no reaction, said quietly to Rona, ‘I must go, or I’ll be late. I’ll see you this evening, but if you need to contact me –’ her eyes flicked towards her aunt – ‘Dad has the number that’ll reach me.’
She bent to kiss the unresponsive figure and a minute later the front door closed behind her. An old clock ticked loudly into the silence. Rona drew up a chair and sat down opposite her hostess.
‘May I switch on the recorder, Miss Rosebury, so I don’t miss anything? It won’t worry you, will it?’
The old lady nodded, then a quiver crossed her face, her eyes refocused, and to Rona’s surprise she leant towards her, smiling.
‘My dear, you don’t know how good it is to see you! For some reason, I thought you’d died.’
Rona stared at her, coldness crawling up her spine. ‘Miss Rosebury, I’m—’
‘I wanted your advice, you see,’ the old voice continued, speaking clearly now. ‘Should I have mentioned it, or not? Seeing them together, I mean, in view of what happened after? At the time I decided no good would come of it, especially after the child and everything, and reporting it would only lead to more suffering.’
Was this the scandal Nuala had teased her about? Rona laid her hand on the dry, wrinkled one. ‘Miss Rosebury, I don’t want to speak to you under false pretences. My name is Rona Parish, and we’ve never met before. I was hoping to ask you—’
‘I was sure I’d done right until that policeman came on television. He was asking people to come forward if they’d heard or seen anything at all unusual, even if it didn’t seem relevant. But I kept quiet. It was his poor wife I was thinking of; she’d suffered enough. You see, it wasn’t only the once; I came across them several times. They never saw me – at least, I don’t think they did. They were too engrossed in each other, kissing, you know, and – oh dear me.’ She broke off, obviously distressed. ‘It was so difficult, knowing both families.’
‘It must have been,’ Rona said over her hammering heart.
‘I still see her about the town and she’s always so pleasant. “Hello, Miss Rosebury, how are you today?” It would be a different story if she knew what I’d seen.’
The old eyes stared into space. Rona said desperately, ‘Shall I make you a cup of coffee? Or hot milk, perhaps?’
There was no answer, but it was claustrophobic in that dim, stuffy room and she needed some space. She went out into the hallway, where dust motes danced in the sunshine, and turned towards the back of the house. The kitchen was totally unmodernized, but contained all the essentials. After opening various cupboards in search of pans, cups and saucers, she was able to produce two cups of milky coffee and, finding an old tin tray propped in a corner, she carried them through.
Miss Rosebury turned sharply as she entered the room. ‘Who are you?’ she demanded, alarm in her voice. ‘What are you doing here?’
Rona set down the tray on a piecrust table, switching the recorder back on as she did so. ‘I’m Rona Parish,’ she said steadily, passing the old lady her coffee. ‘Nuala introduced us, remember?’
A frown. ‘She might have mentioned you on the phone.’
‘That’s right. I’m going to be writing about Buckford, and would love to hear some of your stories.’
The old eyes regarded her uncertainly. Then she nodded. ‘There’s no denying I have plenty of those, as has everyone my age. You’d think we’d learn from experience, wouldn’t you, but we go on making the same mistakes.’ She took a sip of coffee, glancing at the ring on Rona’s finger. ‘As you’ll have gathered, I never married, my dear. I used to regret that when I was young, but I fancy I saved myself a lot of heartache. Such an unsuitable young man – I never trusted him.’
Rona waited, unsure to whom she was referring. An erstwhile suitor from the distant past?
‘I warned her not to marry him, but I should have saved my breath.’
Someone else’s suitor, then.
‘Do you believe in ghosts?’ Miss Rosebury demanded abruptly. Startled, Rona hesitated, but she was already continuing. ‘Buckford’s full of them, like any self-respecting town its age. Monks and white ladies, Roundheads and Cavaliers, and more recent ones, who don’t yet realize they’re dead. I can’t think why people have such difficulty in accepting them. It stands to reason when you think about it; the human spirit is pure energy, and as any scientist will tell you, energy is indestructible.’ She paused, gazing reflectively into her coffee cup. ‘I came across a little boy once, down Clement’s Lane, crying for his mother. I bent down to comfort him, and my hand went straight through him. I knew then it was better not to interfere.’
Rona moistened her lips, unsure whether a comment was
called for, but apparently not. Miss Rosebury was off at another tangent.
‘If it’s history you’re interested in, we had witch-ducking in the seventeenth century. If they drowned, they were innocent, if they floated they were guilty, and were hauled out to be burned at the stake. Not much of a choice. They still call it Witch’s Pond. Behind the almshouses it is, but nowadays children feed the ducks there, which I suppose is as it should be.’
‘Nuala says you’ve lived here all your life,’ Rona prompted, as she fell silent.
‘Indeed yes, in this very house. We were born in the front room upstairs, my three sisters and I. Florence – Nuala’s mother – was the youngest and I the eldest – fifteen when she was born. But they’re all dead and I’m still here. Odd, how life works out.’
She drank some more coffee, wiped the corners of her mouth with her handkerchief, and switched topics again.
‘I was a milliner, you know, with a nice little shop off Thackeray Street – where that monstrous mall is now. We made special hats for weddings and presentation at Court, but our bread and butter trade was everyday hats, in the days when people wore them. It all changed after the war. Still, my most satisfying work was teaching at Sunday School for thirty years, often several generations of the same family. All those children.’ She shook her head. ‘For the most part they grew up to lead ordinary, blameless lives – or at least as blameless as any life can be. But you could tell, even at that age, the ones that would go to the bad. It might be politically incorrect to say so, but I was reading the other day that scientists have found some gene or chromosome or whatever that indicates how a person’s character will develop. I could have told them years ago that it existed.’
Rona hoped fervently she wouldn’t wander again; she’d be a goldmine of information if she could be kept on the right track.
‘You must have known quite a few vicars during your lifetime,’ she prompted.
‘Over the road there? At least half a dozen, and there’ve been some shenanigans, I can tell you. Fights with the organist, the choir going on strike, the Mothers’ Union up in arms. At least no blood was shed in my day, as it had been earlier. You know about the siege?’
Jigsaw Page 7
