Jigsaw

by Anthea Fraser

  ‘I did hear, yes.’

  ‘Poor Charles; people blacken his name nowadays but I’ve always felt sorry for him. He and I nod to each other every day.’

  For a moment Rona thought she was back among her ghosts, but Miss Rosebury jerked her head in the direction of the window, and she realized she was referring to the pub sign. She was planning her next question when Miss Rosebury said suddenly, ‘Would you excuse me? I’d like my nap now.’

  Rona felt a spurt of frustration; after a shaky start, the interview had been going well and she was loath to abandon it.

  ‘Of course,’ she said, since there was no help for it, and removed the cup and saucer from the old lady’s hand as her eyelids started to droop. She carried the tray back to the kitchen, where she washed and dried the crockery and put it away. By the time she returned Miss Rosebury’s head had fallen forward, which would doubtless result in a stiff neck. Gently, Rona propped a cushion behind her, and the old lady settled more comfortably, murmuring, ‘Maisie? Is that you?’

  ‘It’s all right,’ Rona said softly. ‘Go to sleep now.’

  And moving almost on tiptoe, she let herself out of the house.

  The meeting left Rona with a feeling of unease. According to Nuala, Miss Rosebury had been alert and on top of everything until recently; now it seemed her alertness was only spasmodic. I thought you’d died, she’d said. Rona, walking in the hot sunshine, repressed a shiver. She didn’t, however, feel it sufficiently urgent to phone Nuala at work; time enough to report back this evening.

  She was impatient to replay the cassette, analyse it, and as the privacy of her room was denied her, her first priority must be to establish a base in which to work between appointments. The library was the obvious choice.

  She and Max had passed it last week, but for a moment she couldn’t recall its whereabouts. Then she remembered it stood on the site of the defunct St Stephen’s Church, in Market Square. Retracing the steps they’d taken, she made her way along narrow Clement’s Lane – keeping a weather eye open for ghostly little boys – past the town hall and the Counting House to the square with the cross in its centre.

  Directly opposite her, the buildings of St Stephen’s Primary occupied the entire side of the square, and to her left, as she’d remembered, stone steps topped with an ornate balustrade led up to the public library. She was about to approach it when she was distracted by the irresistible aroma of roasting coffee, which, turning instead to her right, she traced to the door and bow window of St Stephen’s Coffee Shop. Without hesitation Rona went inside, selected a window table and sat back with a sigh of relief. At Miss Rosebury’s, she’d had to chip stale instant coffee out of its jar, and it had left a disagreeable taste in her mouth. She ordered a cappuccino and, spoiling herself, a Danish pastry. Then she took out a notebook and began an aide mémoire.

  Almost immediately, voices from the counter reached her and she looked up. The woman standing there had her back to her, but Rona noted enviously the cut of her green silk dress – designer, for sure – and the height of her elegant heels. ‘I’ll try the Blue Mountain again,’ she was saying in a high, well-educated voice, ‘but I hope it’s better than the last batch, which had no flavour at all.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Madam.’ The assistant sounded flustered. ‘It was from our usual supplier, but if you have any more trouble, please don’t hesitate to return the packets and we’ll look into it.’

  The customer nodded and turned from the counter, slipping her purchases into her shopping bag, and Rona, interested to see her from the front, was not disappointed. A cloud of auburn hair surrounded an oval face, with a full mouth and finely delineated eyebrows. As the woman looked up, eyes of an unusually dark blue met and briefly held Rona’s. Then she was out of the door and tapping quickly away down the pavement, leaving Rona, feeling like a schoolgirl in her cotton dress, to return to her notes.

  The approach of the waitress was a further interruption, and as her coffee and pastry were set down, Rona heard continuing voices from behind the counter.

  ‘She’s always complaining,’ the assistant was saying in a low voice. ‘Perhaps she thinks we’ll knock something off her next purchase if she makes enough fuss. Well, hard luck. I always tell her to bring it back if she’s not satisfied, but she never does.’

  Her colleague laughed. ‘Thinks she can browbeat the peasants, does she?’

  One of the girls, suddenly aware of Rona within earshot, nudged the other and they moved to the back of the shop. Not good policy to criticize your customers, she reflected, particularly when others were present. Magda would have sacked them on the spot, and briskly overridden claims of unfair dismissal.

  A couple of young men in suits came in and sat at a table near her, discussing a business appointment, and when the waitress came to serve them, Rona asked for her bill. As she waited for it she glanced through the lunch menu, deciding to return later. It was convenient for the library and the menu looked appetising.

  At the library she made her way to the reference section, selected a table at the far end and took out her laptop, recorder and earpiece. The morning wore on as she transcribed verbatim all the interviews she’d done so far, with the heads of the various schools yesterday and, finally, with Edna Rosebury. Out of context, and without the old lady sitting opposite, her opening words sounded even more bizarre. Rona would have given a lot to know what she’d decided to keep quiet about, and so, from what she’d said, might the police. How long since she had seen those illicit lovers? From the way she’d jumped from one century to another, it could have been either last week or twenty years ago. Yet Nuala had mentioned a recent scandal. Was it that which was preying on Miss Rosebury’s subconscious?

  At twelve thirty Rona packed up her belongings and returned to the coffee shop, considerably more crowded now, where she enjoyed hot chicken salad and a spritzer. She’d an afternoon appointment at Buckford College, and needed to keep a clear head. As suggested by Mrs Bishop, she had phoned the school secretary, who, having established she wasn’t a prospective parent, had agreed to allocate her an hour of her time, to include a quick tour of the school. When, however, Rona tentatively enquired about meeting the headmaster, she had received short shrift. Apparently Mr Maddox did not speak to journalists.

  Having collected her car from Parsonage Place, she drove out of town and along the road that led to the college. This time she could legitimately turn into the gateway, and she made her way up the winding drive and round the back of the buildings, following the signs to the car park.

  The building itself, large and handsome in red brick, looked to be Victorian. It was surrounded by green lawns and flowerbeds, but from behind a screen of trees came the unmistakable sound of leather on willow, and in the distance white-clad figures could be seen on tennis courts. It seemed that afternoons were devoted to sport.

  Her ring was answered by a neatly dressed young woman, who conducted her to Miss Morton’s study. The school secretary, efficiently bespectacled, came forward to meet her.

  ‘Miss Parish? Joan Morton. How do you do?’

  ‘I’m so grateful you could spare me the time,’ Rona said, taking the hand she held out. ‘It would be impossible to write an account of Buckford without mentioning the college, and there’s no substitute for seeing it yourself.’

  ‘I must warn you that its history has already been well chronicled,’ Miss Morton said, waving Rona to a chair and reseating herself behind her desk. ‘It might be hard to find a new angle.’

  ‘I realize that. In fact, I was wondering if it would be possible to see the account Mrs Bishop did a few years ago?’

  Miss Morton frowned. ‘I’m not sure I could lay my hands on it. In any case, it was little more than a scrapbook. You’d do better to study more authenticated versions.’

  ‘But it’s the anecdotal material I’m after.’ Rona held up her recorder with a raised eyebrow and Miss Morton nodded. ‘As you say,’ she continued, switching it on, ‘there are plenty
of other sources for the factual history. I’m aiming for more general interest – famous pupils, school ghosts, anything of that nature. For instance, when a friend of mine was here, the headmaster kept parrots.’

  Miss Morton allowed herself a small smile. ‘That would be Mr Rillington. Admittedly he was a little – colourful – but I’m afraid you’ll find most of them have been earnest academics.’

  ‘What about the present one?’ Rona asked bluntly. ‘Mr – Maddox, is it?’

  ‘Definitely one of the latter. Eton and Cambridge, double first.’

  ‘No exotic pets?’

  ‘I’m afraid not.’

  ‘How long has he been here?’

  ‘Eight years; he succeeded Mr Palfrey.’

  ‘Has he any family?’

  Miss Morton stirred. ‘I can’t really see—’

  ‘Surely his CV appears in the prospectus? Parents must want to know—’

  ‘As you say, it’s no secret.’ Miss Morton’s voice was clipped. ‘Mr Maddox has two sons from his first marriage. And no, he was not divorced; his wife was killed in a car crash twelve years ago.’

  ‘But he’d remarried by the time he came here?’

  ‘Yes; married headmasters are a requisite. And before you ask, there are no further children. You mentioned ghosts,’ Miss Morton continued smoothly, steering the conversation away from the personal. ‘Allegedly the science block is haunted. The boys amuse themselves by hiding there at Hallowe’en.’

  ‘Who’s the ghost?’

  ‘A boy in the nineteenth century, who quite literally blew himself up while carrying out an experiment. All nonsense, of course, but the imagination plays strange tricks. And there’s also the wounded soldier.’

  Rona raised an enquiring eyebrow.

  ‘During the First World War the building was used as a convalescent home for the troops. One of them committed suicide by throwing himself out of a window. The sound of his stick is heard tapping along the top-floor corridor.’ She permitted herself another smile. ‘Or so it’s said. The window is still referred to as Perkins’ Drop.’

  ‘That’s great!’ Rona exclaimed enthusiastically. ‘Just what I was after! Thank you.’

  ‘A thumbnail history of College, before I show you round: it originated in a small house in the centre of town in 1560, moving several times as it grew larger. Finally, in the nineteenth century, a trust bought this land, the building was purpose-built, and both day boys and borders moved here in 1840. As to famous pupils, there have been quite a few: Jerome Fitzsimmons, the Victorian prime minister; the poet Frederick Lancet and Seymour Leonard, the silent-movie star, among others, but they’re all listed at the back of the booklet I’ve put out for you.

  ‘Now, if you’d like I’ll take you on a quick tour of the building. We’ll avoid the few classrooms that are in use, but most of the pupils are out on the games fields.’

  The fact that his brief was a school rather than a stately home had not swayed the architect from his grand design. Sweeping staircases led to prefects’ studies and staff rooms resplendent with wood-panelled walls; vaulted ceilings arched over well-stocked libraries, and in the beautifully proportioned classrooms the banks of computers seemed an anachronism. Only the Science Wing had of necessity been modernized, and though, as Miss Morton had indicated, the supposedly haunted lab still existed, its sad ghost would barely have recognized it.

  Back in the main entrance hall, highly polished boards listed the names and dates of headmasters since the college’s earliest beginnings. Rona stopped to read them, and had reached the last name, Richard Maddox, as he himself came down the staircase beside them.

  Since he could hardly ignore them, he paused with an enquiring smile and Miss Morton said quickly, ‘Headmaster, this is Miss Rona Parish, whom I told you about. She’s researching Buckford for the octocentenary. Miss Parish, Mr Maddox.’

  He was a tall and imposing figure, with dark hair touched with grey at the temples and deep lines between his eyes. His black gown, hanging loosely from his shoulders, gave him an air of effortless authority.

  ‘Miss Parish.’ He held out a hand that was cool and dry.

  ‘How do you do, Mr Maddox. I’ve been admiring your splendid school.’

  ‘I’m sure Miss Morton will supply you with all the information you require. We have a well-illustrated prospectus that is full of facts.’

  ‘I’ve put one out ready for her,’ Miss Morton murmured.

  Rona thought it wise not to repeat her interest in ghosts and eccentricities. ‘Thank you,’ she said dutifully, and, with a nod, Richard Maddox went on his way. She would not, she reflected, like to cross swords with him, and spared a thought for the boys sent to his study for a reprimand. Corporal punishment might be frowned on these days, but it was clear Richard Maddox would have no need to resort to it.

  They returned to Miss Morton’s study and while she extracted the promised literature, Rona glanced through the window in time to see a car draw up outside and the driver get out. To her surprise, it was the woman from the coffee shop.

  ‘Is that a member of staff?’ she asked quickly.

  Joan Morton looked up, turning to follow her gaze.

  ‘No,’ she replied, her eyes on the retreating figure, ‘that’s Mr Maddox’s wife. Why?’

  ‘I – saw her in town this morning.’

  ‘Here are the brief history and guide, and the latest prospectus. I hope you’ll find them useful.’

  ‘Thank you. And there’s really no chance of seeing Mrs Bishop’s account?’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Miss Morton said firmly. ‘I’m not even sure we still have it.’

  Rona swallowed her frustration. ‘Well, thanks for your help,’ she said.

  Having secured her parking place opposite the house, Rona walked back to the library where she transcribed the latest interview, discovering to her consternation that the cassette had run out. However, it seemed all she’d missed was Miss Morton’s identification of Mrs Maddox. Odd that she should have seen her twice in one day, Rona thought. They seemed a spiky couple, the headmaster and his wife. She found herself wondering, with a writer’s curiosity, what had brought them together.

  With relief, she saw that the hands of the library clock were approaching five o’clock. It was like being an exile, she thought ruefully, to be shut out of her temporary home during working hours. Possibly, when she knew Nuala better, she might ask if the rules could be bent. Or possibly, since this was Nuala’s first venture into B&B, she had no such rule. Rona should have checked instead of taking Max’s word for it. She resolved to do so before her return next week.

  She put away her things and, with a smile of thanks to the librarian, made her way thankfully back to Parsonage Place.

  Six

  Nuala was in the hall when Rona let herself into the house with the key she’d been given.

  ‘How did it go with Aunt Edna?’ she asked at once.

  Rona hesitated, aware of Will doing his homework at the kitchen table.

  ‘Would you like to come up and listen to the tape?’

  ‘You recorded it? Oh yes, please, I would.’

  With the bedroom door closed, Rona rewound the machine to the beginning of the interview. Nuala caught her breath as her aunt’s halting voice filled the room, and when Rona switched off where she’d gone to make coffee, her eyes were full of tears.

  ‘I’d no idea she was as bad as that,’ she whispered.

  ‘The odd thing is that she wasn’t, the rest of the time. She didn’t know who I was when I went back with the coffee, but after I’d explained she spoke quite lucidly, if a little disjointedly. She was positively eloquent on the subject of the Sunday school; talked about genes and chromosomes, for heaven’s sake.’ Rona flashed a look at her companion. ‘That first bit, though: what did she mean about coming across the couple?’

  ‘It would have been during her night walks. She wanders all round the town after dark. It frightens us even to think about it, but she�
�s done it ever since Maisie died and so far she’s come to no harm.’

  ‘Maisie?’ Rona repeated sharply. ‘That’s what she called me, just as I was leaving.’

  Nuala nodded. ‘I gathered that’s who she thought you were. They were friends all their lives, till Maisie’s death ten years ago.’ She paused, then, avoiding Rona’s eyes, added hesitantly, ‘She mentioned a child.’

  ‘Yes; I suppose the woman, whoever she was, must have become pregnant. Perhaps she lost the baby – or got rid of it.’

  Nuala didn’t reply and after a moment Rona prompted, ‘You think it might be something else?’

  ‘I don’t really see how it can be. It doesn’t make sense.’

  ‘What doesn’t?’

  Nuala looked up miserably. ‘It was when she mentioned the police.’

  At Rona’s blank face, she went on, ‘We had a tragedy here a few years ago; a little girl was run over and killed.’

  Rona said slowly, ‘And when the driver came out of prison, her father murdered him.’

  ‘You heard about it? Yes, it was terrible – it knocked the whole town for six.’

  ‘And you’re wondering if that was the child she was referring to?’

  ‘Well, after the driver was murdered, the police did make an appeal, as Auntie said, though the following day they charged Mr Spencer. How could anything she saw possibly tie in with that?’

  ‘Could there be a connection with that scandal you mentioned?’

  Nuala looked alarmed. ‘God, I hadn’t thought of that.’

  ‘What do you know about it?’

  ‘Absolutely nothing. It was just that when I told her about your coming, and that Gordon had said you were interested in scandals, she said she hoped you’d stick to those safely in the past.’

  ‘Safely in the past,’ Rona echoed thoughtfully.

  ‘So I asked her if she knew of a more recent one, but Will came in at that point and we never got back to it. Oh God!’ she said again.