The Boat House

by Pamela Oldfield

  ‘I can’t deny it,’ he laughed. ‘And you look as young as ever!’

  ‘Now then, Mr Watson.’ She wagged a finger at him but blushed as she did so. ‘And it’s Mrs Warner now.’

  ‘Well, congratulations! I envy Mr Warner.’

  Pleased by the compliments, which nonetheless flustered her, she drew herself up, pushed her spectacles up and sat down at her desk. ‘How can I help you, Mr Watson?’ she asked with an attempt at formality, indicating a chair.

  Donald sat down and quickly explained that he needed to make an appointment with the boss. ‘They are reopening the file on Mrs Leonora Matlowe. Do you remember? She went missing about seven years ago.’

  ‘The young American woman?’

  ‘That’s her.’

  ‘So she didn’t turn up?’

  He shook his head. ‘No sign of her but now I need to refer to the old files in case we missed anything. Leonora’s younger brother is coming to England, determined to find out what happened to his sister. He’s employing me to help him simply because I’m familiar with the original investigation.’

  ‘And because you’re good at what you do.’

  He tried a modest smile but was secretly flattered. ‘We’ll see if there’s anything new to discover,’ he said.

  Minutes later an appointment had been arranged for him to talk with Leo Croom and Donald rose as though to take his leave. However, he hesitated. ‘I don’t suppose you’d know what happened to the punt the Matlowes once owned. I’d like to know if they purchased it from here. It seems to have disappeared over the intervening years since the young woman went missing. There may or may not be a connection.’

  She raised her eyebrows. ‘You think maybe she took the punt out and was drowned? Something like that?’

  ‘Who knows? Something certainly happened to her.’

  ‘And you want “private” information?’ She looked at him sternly but there was a twinkle in her eye. ‘You’ll get me into trouble, Mr Watson!’

  He nodded. ‘You’re quite right – and that would never do!’

  She regarded him earnestly. ‘I recall all the excitement although I was only seventeen, but everyone was talking about it. A real mystery, wasn’t it?’ She glanced towards the door to make sure they were alone. ‘Do you have any idea what happened to her? I mean, maybe the police do know something but can’t prove it so you all have to say nothing . . . because the police seemed to think it might be the husband who . . .’ She frowned then lowered her voice. ‘He might have killed her and just pretended she’d run off.’

  Ah! Light dawned for Donald. Mrs Warner wanted something in exchange for the information about the Matlowes’ boat, which was fair enough. ‘Mrs Matlowe said something to the police about a quarrel the husband and wife had had the night before she disappeared and I daresay that made them suspect him. There was never any other evidence that he might have harmed his wife but . . . mud sticks.’

  She was rising to her feet now and his hopes rose. He said, ‘This young man – the brother – has come over from America and wants to know the facts. I think he wants to prove to his parents that his sister didn’t just abandon the children willingly.’

  ‘I suppose that if they find out she is definitely dead they can start to grieve. It must be dreadful to go on hoping year after year!’ She was now opening the top drawer of one of the filing cabinets and riffling through the various files.

  At last she drew one out and opened it. ‘The Matlowes purchased one of our punts in 1898 – that’s fourteen years ago. Paid for by cheque in the name of Herbert Matlowe.’

  Donald made a quick note as she turned over another sheet.

  ‘They have never sold it back to us . . . nor have they advertised it for sale on our notice board.’ She closed the file and returned it. ‘Not much help, is it?’

  ‘You never know what might come in useful.’ He smiled. ‘You’ve been a real brick! Thank you.’

  He said his goodbyes and had reached the door when she said, ‘They say that Mrs Matlowe hated the punt. She was terrified of the river. One of her uncles drowned in a boating accident when she was a child and she never forgot it.’

  He stared at her. ‘That’s news to me.’

  ‘And you’re the investigator!’ She grinned.

  ‘If I ever need another colleague . . .’ He left the sentence unfinished.

  She shrugged. ‘Working here you pick up all sorts of things. People gossip. Especially river people. They love tittle-tattle.’ Changing the subject she asked, ‘Will you be watching the regatta this year or are you too busy?’

  ‘We might snatch a few hours’ free time. It would be something to see the King and Queen go down the river.’

  She wished him well with his investigation and he strolled back to his motor car in high spirits. Thank the Lord, he thought, as he swung the starting handle, for the Miss Batts of this world. Sorry! Make that the Mrs Warners.

  The Sutton Ladies Charity Group were rightly proud of their home for the dispossessed, which catered solely for impoverished gentlewomen. Six women, to be exact. The Sutton Group consisted of thirty-seven dedicated ‘women of means’ who had come together to provide a final resting place for gentlewomen in Sutton who had fallen upon hard times and had nowhere else to go. The house, known only as Number 24, stood in a quiet side street by the name of Dickens Drive, well removed from the noise and bustle of the nearby shops.

  It was staffed by carefully selected young women like Agatha who took pride in her work and was a credit to the entire project. Agatha cooked the meals. Nora did the cleaning. Nesta and Mary cared for the inmates’ physical needs – helping them at mealtimes, washing them, changing their clothes, emptying their commodes.

  Ivy Busby was one of the current six who enjoyed this attention and she was properly grateful. Not that she needed much help – she could feed herself without assistance, and dress herself each morning in whichever assortment of clothes had been allotted to her from the recent collection. Her shoes were a size too large but she had stuffed paper into the toes. The shapeless dress had once been let out with two side gussets. She felt that she was wearing a sack but then told herself that no one in the entire world cared how she looked so why should she.

  It was not an ideal existence but thankfully she suffered from no disease and still had her wits about her. She was, however, distinctly frail and was the oldest resident.

  At ten past eleven in the morning she sat fully dressed in a comfortable chair, speaking to one of the home’s sponsors – a Mrs Margaret Beck-Holmes whose husband was ‘something in the government’ and might one day be granted a knighthood. She most definitely belonged under the heading ‘woman of means’.

  ‘You look well, Miss Busby.’ Margaret Beck-Holmes smiled. ‘A little more colour in your face, I think. Now when was it I saw you last?’

  ‘Last Tuesday.’

  ‘Ah yes, that was it, and you had a few sniffles, I recall.’ She patted Ivy’s speckled hand and in doing so admired her own hand, which was adorned by three rings of various shapes and sizes – all of them valuable. She smiled gently. ‘But you’ve recovered. And you are quite happy here?’

  Her husband, Ivy knew, was a boring man with no imagination, but he was rich. He came to Number 24 occasionally and Ivy had taken an immediate dislike to him. A typically British pompous ass. That was her impression.

  She nodded dutifully but added, ‘Happy enough. It’s all relative, isn’t it?’

  Mrs Beck-Holmes hesitated, unsure how to take the comment and decided to ignore it. ‘Quite settled in this old country of ours?’ she asked Ivy. ‘A far cry from America.’

  Mr Beck-Holmes must be about fifteen years older than her, Ivy reflected, and might well die before his wife. If he did his money would be hers and she might well put some more of it into Number 24. If he didn’t drink it all. She thought his reddened nose was rather suspicious.

  Ivy nodded again. ‘Settled, yes, thank you.’

  On t
he opposite side of the room Miss Allen glanced up from her crochet – a mass of tangled loops and missed stitches which would never be finished because her faltering concentration made it impossible. ‘Miss Busby comes from America,’ she announced in a quavering voice.

  ‘I know she does.’

  ‘She used to be a nanny. I was a ladies’ maid. I never married.’ For a moment Miss Allen considered her crochet work. ‘I had suitors but I chose not to marry,’ she continued. ‘My ladies needed me. I made them crocheted collars, which they valued. I was highly regarded.’

  ‘I’m sure you were.’ Margaret Beck-Holmes smiled apologetically at Ivy and turned to share a few words with Miss Allen. The door opened and another resident was led in, leaning heavily on Nesta’s arm.

  Ivy muttered, ‘Here comes sleeping beauty!’

  Miss Spinks was given a strong sleeping draught last thing at night to prevent her from wandering in the early hours, which meant that she was always very sluggish in the mornings.

  America. The word tugged at Ivy’s heart strings. Was she happy here? No, but she was comfortable. Was she settled? Certainly not, but she was resigned. Did she ever long for home? Every minute of every day. As a girl of eighteen, she had been nanny to Leonora’s mother and had stayed with her when she married. She had been nanny to Leonora and to Richard and stayed on as a valued family friend, until Leonora’s twin girls were born.

  Nesta was settling Miss Spinks in a chair beside the window. Ivy watched the familiar scene without much interest. The poor woman would remain there until lunch was served, staring blankly out of the front window at a red pillarbox and a misshapen plane tree, seeing and understanding nothing.

  Do I feel cheated? Ivy nodded in answer to her unspoken question. Am I bored? Yes I am. It was all so predictable. Today Agatha would produce fatty mutton stew, tomorrow steamed fish but not much of it, the next day a vegetable pasty with potato, carrots and onions and tough pie crust. It was meagre fare but the Sutton Ladies did their best with whatever money they could raise and they were justly proud of their small enterprise and were widely applauded in the community for their efforts.

  And who was she to complain, Ivy asked herself bitterly. She paid nothing for her bed and board because, like the other five unfortunates, she had nothing. Not a penny in her purse. In fact Ivy no longer owned a purse. She was a charity case. They all were. Thank the Lord the Prestons back home had no idea of her situation. At least she hoped not.

  ‘I have my pride!’ she whispered.

  Nesta said, ‘What’s that, dear?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  Nesta, young and pretty with soft dark hair, was engaged to be married and would shortly be leaving.

  She greeted Mrs Beck-Holmes and turned to go but then turned back. ‘I nearly forgot. There’s a letter for you, Miss Busby.’ She drew it from her uniform pocket.

  ‘A letter?’ Ivy stared in disbelief. ‘For me?’

  ‘It was delivered ten minutes ago.’

  She handed it to Ivy and bustled out of the room.

  Mrs Beck-Holmes smiled broadly. ‘Well! A letter! You are lucky. Would you like me to read it to you?’

  ‘No thank you. I can read.’

  The words sounded sharper than she intended and Mrs Beck-Holmes’ smile faltered as she hastily turned her attention to Miss Spinks.

  With some difficulty Ivy pushed herself up from the chair and began to move slowly towards the door. She would read the precious letter in the dormitory where she hoped she would be alone.

  FIVE

  Donald threw open the door of the office and almost bounced in. Today was the day Richard Preston was coming by to discuss the progress of the investigation, if any, and Donald could hardly wait.

  Judith looked up from her typewriter. ‘Pigs will fly!’ she said. ‘Only five minutes late!’

  ‘Has anyone ever told you that you have a sparkling wit?’ he demanded, hanging his jacket on the coat stand and rolling up his shirt sleeves.

  ‘Not lately, no.’

  ‘I wonder why that is.’

  She grinned. ‘Has anyone ever told you that sarcasm is the lowest form of wit?’

  ‘Preston will be here in precisely ten minutes,’ he informed her. ‘Are we ready for him?’

  ‘Except for the red carpet. I dusted off the spare chair and have a tray set for three cups of tea.’

  ‘No biscuits?’

  ‘I bought some custard creams, Donald, but you ate them all yesterday. I did warn you.’

  ‘Where’s the copy of his letter to us?’ he asked.

  She placed it on his desk. ‘And here’s a copy of the letter you wrote to Ivy Busby. She would have received it yesterday.’

  ‘I want him to see it . . . And the notes about my meeting with Miss Lefevre?’

  He looked harassed, she thought. Panicking as always. He had no idea how good he was at his job. ‘In your folder, Donald. Where else would they be?’ She handed the folder to him.

  ‘How do I look? Honestly,’ he demanded.

  ‘A little mad and your hair is somewhat dishevelled.’

  ‘So, in a word – utterly professional?’ He tried to flatten his hair.

  She grinned. ‘I’d be impressed – but then, I’m your cousin and a great fan.’

  ‘Thanks. Now, wait while I read this aloud and then pop out for some custard creams.’

  ‘Must I? The chances are he won’t like custard creams anyway – and being an American he’ll want coffee instead of tea.’

  ‘Get whatever we need,’ he instructed. ‘No expense spared. Honestly, Judith. I want to impress him . . . And I’m your boss, remember. You’re the secretary. Don’t make jokes at my expense.’

  ‘As if I would!’

  Pacing what was available of the cluttered floor, he began to read.

  ‘Dear Mrs Busby, as you can see from the enclosed business card, I am a private investigator and have recently been hired by Mr Richard Preston to look again into the disappearance of Leonora Matlowe, née Preston. Richard Preston is coming to England in a bid to discover the truth about Leonora’s disappearance.’

  Judith sighed loudly. She had heard the letter several times already.

  Ignoring the hint, Donald continued. ‘As you were once a nanny to Leonora and Richard Preston and were also, for a time, the nanny to Emmeline and Edith Matlowe, I understand that Richard Preston will wish to meet and speak with you, partly to renew your acquaintance after all these years but also in the hope that you may be able to shed some light on the unfortunate affair especially as you were still caring for the twins at the time of her disappearance.’

  Judith studied her nails. She thought the letter very well done, clear and concise, but she had given him her opinion previously and had no intention of repeating herself.

  He glanced up. ‘If she is no longer able to read, no doubt someone will read it to her.’

  ‘Almost certainly.’

  ‘Will you be willing to see Leonora’s brother? I am told you are being cared for by the very splendid Sutton Ladies Charity Group but I hope this will not deter you from considering a meeting, especially as it might provide new leads into the case and help our investigations.

  ‘However, I realize that you may well consider this an intrusion and, although Richard Preston will be disappointed, I feel sure he will understand.

  ‘I look forward to hearing from you as soon as possible and will show a copy of this letter to Richard Preston when I see him.

  ‘Your obedient servant, Donald Watson.’

  He glanced across at his cousin. ‘How does it sound?’

  ‘The same as it did when you read it last time. You know my feelings. I think it’s sneaky not to tell her that Leonora’s brother is going to try and get custody of the twins.’

  He rolled his eyes, exasperated at her lack of enthusiasm. ‘I explained that. I think she’s an old lady and probably can’t take in too much at once. The shock might finish the poor old thing off!’


  ‘How do you know she’s a poor old thing? Just because she’s a woman it—’

  He held up his hand. ‘Stop! There’s no time for the lecture. Just pop out for the coffee and biscuits, please, Judith. He’ll be here soon.’

  There were footsteps on the stairs and they watched the door, hoping that it was a client for the solicitor on the floor above. The door opened.

  ‘Mrs Montini!’ they cried, dismayed.

  Judith snatched up her purse and, with a wicked wink for Donald, slipped past her and out of the door.

  Mrs Montini was small and shapeless, her dark brown eyes hidden behind spectacles. She carried a large and apparently ancient handbag. Puffing from the exertion on the stairs she sank uninvited on to a chair and waved the letter she had received.

  ‘What is this?’ she demanded. ‘A letter to settle the account?’ Her voice still held a trace of her Italian ancestry. ‘Why do you stop looking? You have no . . .’

  Donald drew in a long breath and sat down beside her. ‘Dear Mrs Montini, I have to remind you of a very sad fact. Your husband wandered away one night because he was very muddled in his mind, and he . . .’

  ‘Muddled in his mind?’ Her tone was indignant.

  ‘And it was dark and he stumbled into the road and . . .’

  Hugging her large handbag she leaned forward. ‘Muddled in his mind! My husband . . .’

  ‘And he was knocked down by a car and killed. I’m sorry to have to remind you but now that we know he is no longer considered missing but dead, we cannot go on looking for him. The bill for our services is very small. If you wish to settle it now . . .’ Leaving the sentence unfinished, he glanced desperately at the clock. Please, he thought, let her be gone by the time Richard Preston arrives.

  Slowly Mrs Montini drew the letter and the bill from the envelope. ‘Yes, it is a small amount.’ She seemed to sink lower in the chair. ‘You are saying my husband is dead?’

  ‘You went to his funeral. My cousin, Judith, came with you.’

  ‘But I have been to the churchyard and there is no headstone. How can he be buried?’

  ‘He was buried, Mrs Montini, but you have to pay for the headstone to be installed – with his name on it.’