The Boat House

by Pamela Oldfield

  ‘Ah! A headstone! Maybe . . .’

  ‘Mrs Montini, I have another client due at any moment. Suppose you . . .’ He froze. More than one set of footsteps were approaching.

  The door opened and Judith came in with a young, good-looking man who stepped quickly forward and held out his hand.

  Donald shook it. ‘Mr Preston . . .’ He glanced helplessly at Judith.

  ‘Good morning, Mrs Montini!’ she cried cheerfully. ‘How nice to see you.’

  Mrs Montini rose to her feet, eyeing the newcomer dubiously. ‘My husband wandered away . . .’ she began.

  Richard Preston turned to Donald for enlightenment.

  Donald said, ‘Judith, Mrs Montini now realizes that her husband’s grave needs a headstone and . . .’

  ‘A headstone? But of course.’ She smiled. ‘Mrs Montini, suppose I help you with that? We could meet here at the office one day next week and I will take you to a man who makes headstones. We can decide what you want to put on it.’

  Donald crossed his fingers behind his back.

  ‘A man who makes headstones? Oh yes, I think I should like that. But I have this small account to . . .’

  Donald said, ‘We’ll leave that until you come next week.’ He lowered his voice. ‘I’ll make a cup of tea – or coffee – for Mr Preston while you see her out.’

  Richard Preston said, ‘Coffee, please, black.’ He strolled tactfully to the window and watched the traffic go past while various things were set in motion and Mrs Montini finally made her way out, smiling bravely as she went.

  Richard Preston turned from the window. ‘She sounded the way I felt when I first heard that Leonora was missing. All shook up. That’s how we’d put it back home. What happened to her husband?’

  Judith took over from Donald, leaving him free to explain and to settle their client into a chair. Judith opened the bag of biscuits and arranged some on a plate. Five minutes later the meeting proper began.

  At nine o’clock the following day, as the twins scurried down the stairs, the telephone rang.

  ‘That made me jump!’ cried Emmie.

  ‘Me too! I jumped.’

  They continued their flight through the kitchen and out into the garden where their assignment was to look for butterflies or bees and to see which flowers they preferred.

  At a leisurely pace, Marianne prepared to follow them down the stairs. The sun was shining and it was very warm so she had decided that they would also sit in the garden to do their verbal spelling. For this reason she paused at the landing cupboard and found a picnic rug, determined not to give her employer any excuse, such as damp grass, to send them indoors again.

  Lorna answered the telephone and fetched Mrs Matlowe. Poised on the landing, Marianne remained where she was, rather than interrupting her employer by making her way downstairs.

  ‘Who is this? Richard who?’

  Already Mrs Matlowe sounded irritable, thought Marianne.

  ‘Oh!’ It was more of a gasp. ‘My sister told me to expect . . . What’s that? Come here? Certainly not. That is, I see no need, Mr Preston . . . I see no need for a meeting of any kind. To be plain, Mr Preston, I very much object to your visit to my sister. I consider it snooping. An unpleasant habit, I’m sure . . .’

  Embarrassed, Marianne withdrew quietly until she was out of sight but she stayed within hearing distance, intrigued by the one-sided conversation. Was Mrs Matlowe going to refuse to see Leonora’s brother?

  ‘Don’t take that tone of voice with me, Mr Preston. I am not accustomed to being bullied and I . . .’ Mrs Matlowe let out an exaggerated sigh. ‘Naturally I understand that you want to learn what happened to your sister but I have no such need. To be frank, I did not like her and the feeling was mutual. She ran off after a stupid row and abandoned the children. As far as I am concerned she . . .’

  Intrigued, Marianne moved forward a little so that she could see her employer. Mrs Matlowe was sitting on the chair beside the telephone, one hand clasped to her chest.

  ‘Police investigation?’ Her voice rose. ‘I see no need for . . . Mr Preston, I would call that a threat! In fact I would call it blackmail!’ Her voice was rising. ‘No, you are not trying to be nice, Mr Preston. You are being most unpleasant, trying to thrust your way into our lives . . . Don’t you think the twins have suffered enough already?’

  Marianne could imagine Cook and Lorna, hidden behind the kitchen door, also anxious not to miss a word.

  ‘An offer? How dare you suggest . . .’ Mrs Matlowe raised her eyes heavenward, as she listened intently to the voice on the other end of the line. ‘Just once? You are sure of that? Well, maybe just once – if that means we shall be shot of you. It’s all most inconvenient and I shall . . . Certainly not. I insist that I shall be present at each interview. In fact we shall all come together. There will be nothing underhand . . . Very well, one visit, tomorrow at eleven o’clock. And if you do harass me further, I shall speak to my lawyer. Is that understood? Goodbye to you, Mr Preston.’

  She hung up the receiver and sat staring into space, her chest heaving with emotion. Then, as the anger drained away, she lowered her head and covered her face with her hands.

  Marianne counted to ten and then made her way downstairs. Mrs Matlowe sprang to her feet. ‘Fetch Cook and Lorna, Marianne, and come into the lounge.’

  Two minutes later she turned from the window to face them. She had calmed herself, Marianne saw with reluctant admiration, and even managed a smile. ‘The children’s uncle, Richard Preston, is coming tomorrow for a short visit – to see them. He is in England hoping to find his sister – a stupid wild goose chase, but we must humour him. I’ve agreed that he speaks to all of us for a few moments to satisfy himself that none of us knows anything that will help him solve the mystery of Leonora’s disappearance.’

  Lorna said, ‘We wasn’t even here, Mrs Matlowe, so we don’t know anything – except what we’ve heard.’

  Mrs Matlowe turned gimlet eyes on her maid. ‘What you’ve heard? I hope you haven’t been listening to gossip, Lorna. You won’t last much longer in my employ if you have!’

  ‘She hasn’t, ma’am,’ Cook said quickly. ‘But you know how it is. People will talk and it was in all the papers and such. People have long memories.’

  Mrs Matlowe straightened her back. ‘Her disappearance was unfortunate. The police – rightly in my opinion – quickly lost interest. Wives leave their husbands. Husbands leave their wives. No one expects the police to waste time on them . . . My son, sadly, felt he should go after her and bring her back. If he hadn’t been driving in search of her, he would be alive today. Indirectly Leonora killed the children’s father and I, for one, will never forgive her.’

  Cook took a chance. ‘So do you think she’s dead, ma’am? Or do you think her brother will find her? I mean, it would be wonderful if he did . . . wouldn’t it?’

  They had to wait for Mrs Matlowe’s reply. ‘After all this time . . . I think it would be a miracle if she were to be found . . . because . . .’ She swallowed hard. ‘If she is still alive and hasn’t come back to the twins then it would mean she has abandoned her own children. Doesn’t love them enough to come back for them. You see what I’m saying? Emmie and Edie are old enough to understand these things. They would be distraught.’

  Lorna said, ‘Poor little mites.’

  ‘Exactly! Better that she’s dead – and stays that way.’

  The ticking of the clock seemed to grow louder as they waited to be dismissed.

  On impulse, Marianne said, ‘If she’s dead then . . . do you think she was murdered?’

  ‘Murdered? Of course not. Don’t be so melodramatic, Marianne. If she’s dead then she must have been in an accident or . . . or contracted an illness.’

  Lorna said, ‘People do die young of illnesses because my cousin’s friend got whooping cough and then it went on to her chest and got much worse and . . .’

  ‘Thank you, Lorna. You can spare us the details. Get back to your
work, please, and remember – eleven o’clock tomorrow morning sharp. We’ll give the wretched man his answers and then send him packing.’

  Richard Preston, thought Marianne next morning, was disconcertingly attractive for someone so young. Too young for his personality to show through the bright green eyes, classically shaped features and humorous but vulnerable mouth. His brown hair shone with cleanliness and had been well cut. Easy to see that a few years ago he might have been head boy in a good school, or played for the college baseball team. She wondered how her employer could possibly manage to dislike him, but she surely would.

  Looking quite relaxed, Richard Preston stood in front of the household, who had been told to stand in line before him – rather like naughty schoolchildren, Marianne thought, amused. Mrs Matlowe sat in an upright chair, her hands folded in her lap. Upstairs the twins had been given some sums to do and had been threatened by their grandmother to early bedtimes for a week, if they dared to come down from the schoolroom before they were sent for.

  ‘I’m Leonora’s little brother,’ Preston announced himself with a smile, ‘and I guess you all think I’m wasting my time here in England but I’m making one last attempt to trace my sister – and, of course, I want to meet my young nieces, Emmeline and Edie.’

  From the corner of her eye Marianne saw that Mrs Matlowe was keeping a sharp eye out for any sign of rebellion from her staff. She had given them another warning about gossiping and a hardly veiled hint as to the penalties for disobeying. But she had reckoned without Richard Preston. Cook was eyeing him with obvious favour while Lorna was positively ogling him, her eyes wide, her mouth slightly open in what promised to be a smile were she given the slightest encouragement.

  He went on, ‘I won’t pretend Leonora and I were close because I was too young and didn’t move in her circles, but I loved her in my way. She was the bright star in our family, funny, light-hearted, wanting to please. I’m sorry that most of you weren’t able to meet her.’

  Mrs Matlowe coughed and glanced pointedly at the clock.

  ‘Leonora was just twenty when she met and fell in love with Mrs Matlowe’s son, Neil. It was obvious that they were made for one another and when they ran off and were secretly married—’

  ‘They had no right to marry in haste that way.’ Mrs Matlowe glared at him. ‘I should have met her first. That is a normal courtesy in this country.’

  Ignoring the interruption, Preston said, ‘My parents were upset. My mother had hoped for a very lavish wedding but they were so happy together that—’

  ‘Could we move on, Mr Preston? Get back to the point of this meeting.’

  Her jarring tone finally unsettled him. His expression changed to one of hurt. ‘I’m sorry you feel . . .’

  Cook, greatly daring, said, ‘She sounds a very nice woman, Mr Preston. I do hope you find her.’

  Mrs Matlowe gave her a withering look. ‘Could we get on, please?’ she repeated coldly. ‘Does anyone have anything to tell our visitor that might help him in his search?’

  Lorna raised a hand. ‘I heard from Mrs Brannigan next door that the people on the other side of us took some nice photographs of your sister with the children. He might let you see them.’

  Marianne’s pulse speeded up at the look on Mrs Matlowe’s face.

  ‘Did he, Lorna?’ Richard Preston was positively beaming at her. ‘Thank you. Any photographs of my sister with the twins would be . . .’

  Mrs Matlowe said, ‘I think it most unlikely, Mr Preston. I certainly never gave him permission to take photographs of my family.’

  Lorna rushed on while she had their visitor’s full attention. ‘Oh, he didn’t need permission. He took them from one of his windows. His name’s Edward Barnes and he’s quite famous for his photographs. I mean, that’s what he does for a living. The Derby, the regatta, he photographs them all.’

  Preston nodded his thanks. ‘I’ll go round later and speak to him about them. They probably won’t help with my search but it will be great to see them.’

  Through clenched teeth, Mrs Matlowe sent Lorna back to the kitchen. ‘You’ve had your say,’ she told her. ‘Go back to the kitchen and get on with your work.’

  Marianne asked, ‘Did you ever hear from Mrs Matlowe’s son while he was searching in America? Did he have any idea why Leonora left the way she did?’

  Mrs Matlowe stepped forward. ‘Mr Preston is here to ask his own questions, Marianne, not answer yours. If you have nothing useful to contribute . . .’

  ‘No, please let her finish, Mrs Matlowe,’ he said. ‘This is the sort of dialogue I was hoping for – random talk that might somehow trigger a memory or a clue.’ He smiled at her to soften the words.

  Marianne persevered. ‘I have heard rumours that the boat house is haunted. Did your sister ever comment on that?’

  ‘Strange that you should ask that,’ he replied. ‘I have several letters with me that—’

  ‘Letters?’ cried Mrs Matlowe. ‘From your sister?’ The idea clearly dismayed her.

  ‘Yes. She was a great letter writer!’ He smiled. ‘The letters always rambled, nothing formal with Leonora, but they came straight from the heart. I’ve brought them with me and I want the private investigator to read them. They might help in some way.’

  Marianne asked, ‘Were any of them written after she left here – because the postmarks on the envelopes might . . .’

  ‘Sadly not. They would have been useful, but no . . . But to return to your question, Leonora did mention the boat house once or twice. It seemed to fascinate her although she didn’t think it was haunted. She talked about the Henley regatta and was eager to go out on the river in a punt but she seemed to have the impression that the boat house was unsafe in some way. She was hoping . . .’

  He broke off as Mrs Matlowe suddenly groaned. Her head was bent so that her face was hidden but it was immediately obvious to Marianne that she was in some distress.

  Marianne said, ‘Mrs Matlowe, are you all right?’

  Mrs Matlowe raised her head. ‘Stop fussing!’ she muttered, her voice a mere croak. Clutching her left arm, she groaned again, her face screwed up with pain. With an obvious struggle she somehow forced herself on to her feet but there was a sheen of perspiration on her skin.

  ‘I’m absolutely fi—’ she began but then the colour drained from her face and she suddenly swayed. Her eyes closed. ‘Neil!’ she gasped and would have fallen if Richard Preston had not caught her in his arms and lifted her on to the sofa.

  A shocked Cook cried, ‘I’ll fetch a glass of water,’ and hurried out of the room.

  Marianne knelt beside her employer, took hold of her hand and felt for a pulse in the wrist. Before she could determine either way, Mrs Matlowe snatched back her hand. ‘Get away from me!’ she mumbled, blinking, one hand to her head. ‘I’m . . . I’m perfectly well. Just a moment’s dizziness and no wonder. All this fuss so long after her disappearance! I have better things to do with my time.’ She threw an accusing look in Preston’s direction and struggled back to a sitting position. ‘Just get on with your questions, Mr Preston, and hurry it up.’

  Cook returned with the water but Mrs Matlowe waved it away.

  There was a moment’s silence while they watched her nervously. She was breathing deeply, trying to regain her composure. And trying, thought Marianne, with a twinge of compassion, to restore her position of dominancy, which had slipped during her fainting spell. She remained sitting, however, so was obviously not confident enough to stand up again.

  Richard Preston cleared his throat. ‘I guess I can’t answer that question, Miss Lefevre – about the boat house being haunted. Why do you ask?’

  ‘Because I glanced in one day out of curiosity and saw a punt floating on the water. At least I thought I did . . .’

  Lorna slipped back into the room unnoticed.

  ‘. . . but it’s very gloomy in there,’ Marianne went on. ‘Last time I looked in the punt was gone.’ She turned to Mrs Matlowe. ‘Could anyone
be using the boat house without your knowledge?’

  ‘Quite impossible, Marianne. The outer gates – those that open on to the river – are firmly locked. A bolt on the inside. You have an overactive imagination . . .’ She took a deep breath. ‘Perhaps I should explain that I have a great fear of water and particularly of the boat house. I was only ten when my favourite uncle was drowned during the regatta. His punt overturned at one of the locks and the other boats closed over him. My mother said it was so crowded with boats it was a log jam. His body was washed ashore further down the river the following day.’

  ‘My dear Mrs Matlowe!’ cried Preston, with genuine concern. ‘What a terrible thing to happen!’

  Cook said, ‘Lord help us!’

  ‘I’ve never forgotten the grief . . . and that’s why I didn’t want a punt in the boat house. I have never set foot in a boat since then and I didn’t want anyone else to do so, but as soon as I married, my husband insisted on replacing it. Leonora wanted to go out in the punt with Neil and I couldn’t allow it.’

  Marianne frowned. ‘So what happened to the punt?’

  ‘It was sunk. It became rotten and dangerous and . . . I sank it.’

  After a pregnant silence Mrs Matlowe suddenly forced herself to her feet. ‘I think that’s quite enough in the way of revelations, Mr Preston. If Cook and Lorna return to their work, I shall busy myself upstairs and Marianne will bring the twins down to spend half an hour with you as arranged. Marianne can then see you out. Good day to you.’

  Somehow she made a dignified exit.

  Cook said, ‘Come along, Lorna, we’ve work to do.’ She hesitated, unsure of the protocol, and finally said, ‘It’s been nice meeting you, Mr Preston.’

  Lorna said, ‘Yes – and I hope you find your sister.’

  They left the room with a reluctant Lorna waggling her fingers by way of ‘goodbye’.

  Left alone with the visitor Marianne said, ‘I’m afraid she’s rather prickly, Mrs Matlowe. It’s just her way, I suppose.’ Then she wondered why she was apologizing on behalf of her employer. ‘I’ll bring the children down.’