Jigsaw

by Anthea Fraser

  ‘I really am very grateful,’ she told him, rising to go.

  He made a dismissive gesture. ‘It could work both ways; let us know if you come across any interesting lines.’

  ‘I will,’ she promised, and he escorted her back to the foyer.

  Outside, the heat lay in wait for her, and to her relief she saw the striped awning of a café a little way down the road. Like a homing pigeon she bore down on it, glad to find that not only were there vacant tables, but each one bore a jug of iced water and some glasses. She hadn’t accomplished very much, she thought as she seated herself and picked up the jug, but nevertheless it had been an eventful morning.

  When Rona emerged after lunch the heat had intensified, and her recharged energy promptly drained away. It was too hot to do anything outdoors, and since she was up-to-date with her notes there was no point in returning to the library. In any case, she didn’t know what time the market ended, and the thought of battling her way through it again was more than she could bear.

  She’d go home, she decided with a wave of relief. There was no need to stay until four, as she’d intended; she’d go back to Parsonage Place, pack her case, and set off for home. She’d even be in time to take Gus for a walk.

  Unfamiliar with this part of town, she took several wrong turns and it was nearly two thirty when she put her key in the door of number two. Immediately raised voices reached her from the sitting room, and she hesitated. Better to announce her presence, before she unwittingly eavesdropped.

  ‘Nuala?’ she called. ‘I’m back. I’ve decided to leave early, so I’ll just collect my things, if that’s all right.’

  She had started up the stairs when Nuala, her face flushed and upset, emerged from the sitting room, pulling the door shut behind her.

  ‘Sorry, what did you say? You’re leaving now?’

  Rona gave her a bright smile. ‘Yes; sorry to barge in like this, but it’s too hot to think, so I decided to cut my losses.’

  Nuala hesitated, obviously torn between her lodger and the visitor in the room behind her. ‘So we’ll see you on Monday?’

  ‘Yes. Oh, and Mrs Breen has invited me to supper that evening.’

  ‘One less pea in the soup, then,’ Nuala said, with an attempt at a smile.

  ‘Thanks for looking after me, and I’ll see you next week.’

  She continued purposefully up the stairs and after a minute Nuala said, ‘Goodbye, then,’ and returned to the sitting room. Rona, intentionally clattering about as she put things in her case, could hear the low hum of muted voices, but the argument or whatever it was had clearly been put on hold till she was out of the house.

  After a last quick look round the room, she carried her case and laptop downstairs, called ‘Goodbye!’ to the closed door, and without waiting for a reply, hurried out to the car. For the moment, she had had enough of Buckford and its secrets.

  As she was approaching Marsborough, she phoned Max at Farthings. ‘Have you nearly finished there?’ she asked him.

  ‘Nearly; where are you?’

  ‘Almost home, thank goodness.’

  ‘Already? You left early, then?’

  ‘Yes, I’ve done everything I planned for this week.’

  ‘I’ve just finished clearing up, and was about to take Gus for a walk.’

  ‘Hang on then, and we’ll go together.’

  ‘Right; I’ll meet you back at the house in – what? – fifteen minutes?’

  ‘About that,’ she said.

  Gus was overjoyed to see her, jumping up to lick her face, which was unusual for him. ‘I’ve missed you too, boy,’ Rona told him, ruffling his ears. She stood in the hallway, looking round the house. ‘In fact, I’ve missed everyone and everything. It’s good to be home.’

  Max regarded her quizzically. ‘You’re not usually so effusive. Something go wrong up there?’

  ‘Not really, no.’ Since he’d been so anxious over her previous involvement, she didn’t mention the lost tape, insignificant though it was. ‘It’s just that there are atmospheres, hints, you know the kind of thing,’ she added vaguely.

  ‘Plenty of that here,’ Max told her. ‘Shall I take your case up, or do you want to go straight out?’

  ‘Let’s go, and you can tell me what’s been happening while I was away.’

  ‘It’s only been three days!’ he reminded her.

  They set off along the tree-lined streets and up the alley to Furze Hill Park, their usual destination. Immediately inside the gates were walkways and flowerbeds, fountains and sunken rose gardens, but a path on the left led to the upper area, a stretch of grassland and trees much patronized by joggers and dog-walkers. The main heat of the day had dissipated and a welcome breeze met them as they emerged on open ground.

  ‘So did it go according to plan?’ Max persisted, releasing Gus from his lead.

  ‘In as much as I had a plan. I visited the schools, as I told you, and the college. The head’s a cold fish, and I wasn’t impressed by his wife, either.’

  ‘You met her?’

  ‘Not met exactly, but I saw her in a coffee shop, and gathered that she’s always complaining. Stunning looking, though.’

  ‘And the digs are OK?’

  ‘On the whole, though it’s a nuisance having to be out all day. The old man’s a bit taciturn and the little boy’s still cagey with me, but Nuala’s friendly enough. She arranged for me to meet her aunt, who’s lived there all her life. Believe it or not, she sees ghosts!’

  ‘There’s always one,’ Max commented, throwing the ball for Gus.

  ‘I also met the vicar’s wife, and she’s invited me to supper on Monday. I bet she could tell a story or two, but she warned me that her lips are sealed.’

  As the ground levelled off they turned, as they often did, to look down over the town spread below them, with its irregular skyline, its steeples and towers. Rona drew a deep breath of satisfaction. There seemed much more space here than she had found in Buckford, for all its impressive history. Or perhaps it was just that Marsborough was home.

  ‘I bumped into Dave Lampeter the other day,’ Max remarked. ‘Remember him?’

  ‘As if I could forget.’

  Dave was an ex-student of Max’s, whom, during the Harvey débâcle, he had co-opted to keep an eye on Rona without her knowledge, thereby causing her considerable disquiet.

  ‘He still hasn’t found a proper job, poor lad; he’s filling in time stacking supermarket shelves. And talking of students, a new one signed on today; youngish married woman, very pale and quiet but a promising watercolourist.’ Max had only one afternoon class, specifically for retired people and those at home.

  ‘Should bring down the average age,’ Rona said lightly.

  They took it in turns throwing the ball, exchanging pleasantries with passers-by, people exercising their own dogs and elderly couples strolling arm in arm. School was out, and the play area lower down the slope was already crowded. Gus’s ball retrieval grew noticeably slower and his panting more pronounced and, deciding he’d had enough, they started to retrace their steps.

  ‘I’m beginning to feel hungry,’ Rona announced. ‘It was too hot to eat much at lunchtime. What’s for supper?’

  ‘Salmon marinated in wine and dill, cooked in foil, accompanied by one of my special salads, followed by home-made strawberry mousse. Does that meet with your approval?’

  ‘Very much so. With the best will in the world, Nuala’s cooking, bless her, is pretty basic.’

  ‘Look who’s talking!’ Max retorted.

  Seven

  Gus was used to being left in the car, but when Rona pulled up outside the bungalow and told him to wait, he whined piteously. Hardening her heart, she locked the door, ignoring his reproachful pawing at the window, and turned to see Mrs Bishop standing in her doorway.

  ‘Bring him in if you’d like to,’ she called.

  ‘Are you sure you don’t mind?’

  ‘Of course not. I like dogs.’

  Rona
unlocked the door, and before she could stop him, Gus bounded out and down the path towards the house. She hurried after him.

  ‘I’m sorry, he’s not usually so badly behaved,’ she apologized, as Catherine bent to pat the dog. ‘It’s just that I’ve left him with my husband for the last few days, and now he won’t let me out of his sight.’

  ‘Quite understandable,’ Catherine said, straightening and holding out her hand with a smile. ‘He’s done the introductions for us, hasn’t he? What do you call him?’

  ‘Gus. Short for Augustus.’

  ‘A splendid name. Now, I thought we might sit outside. It’s cool at the back of the house, and the people next door are out, so we shouldn’t be overheard.’

  Holding Gus firmly by the collar, Rona followed her hostess through the hall and sitting room to the open patio doors. The garden beyond was small and secluded, planted mainly with shrubs whose different-coloured foliage made an attractive frame for the lawn. Such flowers as there were seemed to have been chosen for their scent; jasmine, roses and honeysuckle.

  ‘It’s my first summer here,’ Catherine explained, ‘and I’m waiting to see what comes up before I make any plans.’

  ‘It’s lovely as it is,’ Rona said. ‘We’ve only a paved garden, but I try to ring the changes with seasonal plants in containers.’

  The patio, in the shade as promised, was furnished with two floral-cushioned chairs and a table with a parasol. ‘Would you prefer coffee, tea or home-made lemonade?’

  ‘The lemonade sounds wonderful.’

  Whether or not due to Gus’s precipitate arrival, there seemed none of the initial restraint normally present at interviews. Catherine Bishop had about her an air of quiet self-assurance that smoothed over any awkwardness. At first sight Rona had thought her plain, but she was already revising that opinion. There was character in her face, and although it would have benefited from more liberal use of make-up, its lack was more than compensated for by an impression of what Rona could only describe as cleanliness, apparent in her sleekly shining hair and the understated elegance of her dress, as well as in the immaculate room they had just walked through.

  As she disappeared indoors, Rona allowed herself to relax in her chair while Gus, soft-footed, set off on an exploration of the garden.

  ‘Would you mind if I record this?’ she asked on Catherine’s return, as a crystal jug and glasses were set down on the table.

  ‘Not at all, I was expecting you to. You’re just back from Buckford, aren’t you?’ Catherine handed her a glass which chilled her fingers. ‘What were your impressions of it?’

  ‘Oh, it’s fascinating; I hope my articles can do it justice.’ She took a sip of the lemonade. ‘I suppose you’ll know all the people I met up there – Nuala Banks and Miss Rosebury, and Mr and Mrs Breen?’

  ‘I do, yes, some better than others. Since there’s no St Stephen’s Church, we borrowed Gordon Breen for our chaplain and he proved a good friend. Did you manage to get round the schools?’

  ‘I left St Stephen’s till after I’d seen you, but the others were helpful, thanks to your introductions. I even had a couple of minutes with the august Mr Maddox.’

  ‘You were fortunate.’

  ‘I’d been told he didn’t give interviews, but as luck would have it, he came into the hall while I was there. He was perfectly civil, but I’m glad he was never my headmaster.’

  ‘He’s a brilliant teacher, by all accounts,’ Catherine said neutrally. ‘The exam results have improved enormously.’

  ‘Well, it was Miss Morton who attended to me. She gave me a lightning tour and supplied me with various pamphlets, but I’ve not had a chance to study them yet. She even told me about the school ghosts.’

  Catherine smiled. ‘Yes, I looked into them while I was doing the history. The sightings seem to have been quite well authenticated.’

  Rona bit her lip. ‘You must have known Mr Maddox quite well; I’m sorry if I spoke out of turn.’

  ‘Not at all. In fact I didn’t have much contact with him; it was his predecessor, Reginald Palfrey, who invited me to do the history, though unfortunately he left before it took shape.’

  ‘It must have been quite an undertaking,’ Rona commented.

  ‘Indeed it was. The original one, on St Stephen’s, started life as a project for the children; they worked on it for a whole academic year, and the finished scrapbook was on display at Speech Day. That’s where Reggie saw it – he presented the prizes that year – and he persuaded me, against my better judgement, to do one for BC. Buckford College,’ she added, as Rona looked up enquiringly. ‘That’s what we called it. But it was a massive challenge, far, far larger in scope than St Stephen’s, because of course it’s three hundred years older. Then there was the change of headship, and the fact that I was conscious all the time of the necessity of maintaining prestige. The whole thing became considerably more scholastic – and time-consuming – than I’d anticipated, though I doubt it was academic enough for Richard.’ She shot Rona an amused glance. ‘You weren’t shown it, I presume?’

  Rona shook her head.

  ‘As I suspected. It was probably filed in the waste-paper basket.’

  ‘But that’s too bad, after all your work!’ Rona exclaimed indignantly.

  ‘Oh my dear, I thoroughly enjoyed myself. So much so, that I later did a third compilation for the Grammar School, though Lord knows if that’s still in existence.’

  Rona felt it politic to change the subject. ‘How long were you at St Stephen’s?’ she asked.

  ‘Twelve years. As you can imagine, it was an important part of my life.’

  ‘Have you always taught?’

  ‘It’s all I ever wanted to do. Before Buckford, I was Head of Infants at a church school in Stokely.’

  ‘You never considered teaching older children?’

  ‘I was tempted, yes. In fact, I was offered the headship of a local grammar school, but after a lot of thought I turned it down. In some ways it would have been more stretching, but there’s something about forming young minds, teaching them to think for themselves and work things out, that had me hooked. I felt I could do most good by giving them a strong foundation on which to build.’

  Rona nodded, making notes on her pad, and Catherine, always intrigued by family relationships, scrutinized her for any resemblance to her father. It was obvious that her height and brown eyes were his legacy; and probably his hair, now steel-grey, had once been as dark as that which swung above her shoulders and flicked up at the ends. Her mouth, though, quirking delightfully at the corners, and the lift of her chin were very much her own. The overall impression was of a confident, independent young woman who knew her own mind, and Catherine, usually slow to form judgements, realized, slightly to her surprise, that she already liked her very much.

  Rona, looking up, misinterpreted her gaze and flushed slightly. Her father, she remembered, had described Mrs Bishop as quiet and unassuming. She felt ‘watchful’ would be a better description.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘that last bit was rather personal.’

  But Catherine was shrugging. ‘No matter; St Stephen’s and I were pretty intertwined.’ She paused. ‘Without wanting to seem pushy, I could lend you the histories, if they’d be of interest?’ And, at Rona’s quick glance, she added, ‘Obviously I kept copies for myself.’

  Rona’s face lit up. ‘That would be wonderful, as long as it wouldn’t ruffle any feathers. I mean, the college couldn’t withhold permission, could they?’

  ‘No, since I own the copyright; but if you’re going to use anything, it might be a courtesy to tell them.’

  ‘Then thank you, I’d love to borrow them.’

  ‘I’ll look them out before you go. Now, is there anything else I can help you with?’

  Rona thought back to Edna Rosebury and her encrypted ramblings. ‘Did you know that little girl who was run over?’

  Catherine’s face clouded. ‘Charlotte Spencer? Yes, I knew her. Her brothe
rs were with us before going to BC.’

  ‘So you’d have met her parents, too?’

  Catherine nodded. ‘I liked Mr Spencer, though I really only knew him from parents’ evenings. He was a quiet man, always leaving his wife to do the talking and seldom offering any insight as to his own views. But he was positively the last person I’d have expected to behave as he did, especially after the considerable time-lapse.’

  The journalist in Rona came to the fore. ‘From newspaper reports, though, the evidence seemed fairly conclusive – motive, means and opportunity.’

  ‘Yes, it was the knife that clinched it: one of the family’s kitchen knives with traces of Pollard’s blood still on it, hidden in the garage. The defence made the point that since Spencer was arrested on the spot he couldn’t have hidden it himself, and that if, as the prosecution alleged, he’d asked someone else to dispose of it, he’d certainly not have told them to put it in his own garage.’

  ‘And what was the reply to that?’ Rona asked.

  ‘That he’d not expected to be arrested, and was intending to replace it in the drawer before it was missed.’ Catherine sighed. ‘But of course, even without that question mark, he was the prime suspect.’

  ‘And he’s still in prison?’

  ‘Yes, for the next umpteen years.’

  ‘What happened to the family?’

  ‘Mrs Spencer and the boys are still there, and as I said, the boys go to BC. I used to see her around town. She had a hunted look, poor woman, but I suppose she’s no option but to keep going.’

  Rona said tentatively, ‘Were there any rumours circulating about that time?’

  Catherine gave a brief laugh. ‘My dear, Buckford, like most small towns, is a hotbed of rumour. What had you in mind?’

  ‘I’m not sure. An illicit romance, I suppose.’

  Catherine Bishop raised an eyebrow. ‘And where did you get wind of that?’

  Rona smiled shamefacedly. ‘From Miss Rosebury, actually. She seems to have seen something – or thought she did.’

  ‘Oh, if she says she saw something, you can take it that she did. She’s as sharp as a pin, that one.’

  ‘But that’s just it – unfortunately she’s not, just at the moment. Nuala’s worried about her.’