Truth Will Out

by Pamela Oldfield

  ‘Special date? Like what?’

  ‘Er . . . like a wedding anniversary or the anniversary of the first day they met . . .’

  ‘First day they . . . Heaven help us!’

  Constable Wickens continued, ‘Or anything of that kind. Mrs Cobb is the co-owner with her brother and says the missing man is, quote, “quite charming and they are obviously very fond of each other”, close quote.’

  ‘So he hasn’t done a runner with another woman?’

  ‘No, Guv. Not very likely. Mrs Cobb’s brother, Derek Jayson, says he hardly saw Brent except to say, quote, “How do and have a nice stay,” close quote. Miss Penelope Trew, maid, says missing man was, quote, “a bit of a dish and spoke quite la-de-dah and must . . . no, might give them a decent tip,” unqu—’

  ‘For Christ’s sake, Wickens, forget the ruddy quote-unquotes! Just get on with it. I’ve got a home to go to.’

  ‘Right, sir. Sorry, Guv. A young boy, Billy Hurst, and his father—’

  ‘The Hursts? You’ve already said them.’

  ‘Have I? Oh, right then . . . The wife, Maude Brent, says it’s out of character for him to go missing, never done anything like it before, can’t think of any reason for his disappearance and plumps for possible amnesia . . .’

  The sergeant yawned. ‘Any known enemies? Money troubles?’

  ‘No enemies; she’s got money from her family, he works in her smart art gallery in London where she is part-owner. The Barlowe Gallery. She wants to go home to Folkestone.’

  ‘Anyone left at their home in Folkestone?’

  ‘An aunt and a paid companion.’

  He looked at the wall clock. ‘Hurry it up, Wickens.’

  ‘Mrs Brent says there was an odd chap hanging about. Might get more from the Folkestone follow-up. Jem, his name was, this odd chap.’

  ‘Jem. Right. We’ll see what Folkestone have found out. I’ll give them a call. Probably all a waste of time. Storm in a blasted teapot! Probably got drunk and fallen asleep somewhere and scared to come back to the missus! Let’s face it – he hasn’t been gone twenty-four hours yet. Anyway, get off home, Wickens, and tomorrow be in on time. You were late yesterday and twice last month. It’s not good enough. You’ve had your last warning!’

  ‘Yes, Guv. I will.’ He made his escape.

  The following morning Maude was asked to attend the police station as there was still no sign of Lionel and they were now taking more interest in the case. She had spent a wretched evening downstairs, attending the amateur soirée and trying to appear composed. People were too kind to her and her longing to be at home with Aunt Biddy and Alice was almost a physical pain. She was, however, tempted to stay on in the area where her husband had disappeared and where all the efforts to trace him would be undertaken.

  Fear for his safety ate into her like a disease, crippling her mind and making it impossible to sleep. Mrs Cobb had called in a doctor who wanted to sedate her but the idea terrified her and he gave up. Instead he offered a soothing syrup, which she took dutifully at intervals but which did absolutely nothing – or so she imagined. After a sleepless night she felt dull and exhausted but she ate a little breakfast and just before midday she allowed herself to be taken to the police station in Derek Jayson’s new Ford motor. He went in with her, on his sister’s instructions, and promised to be waiting for her when the interview was over.

  Maude found herself seated in a small airless room, sitting on an uncomfortable straight-backed chair, sipping a cup of over-sweet tea.

  Constable Wickens was nowhere to be seen but an older man entered the room, smiled and introduced himself as Detective Constable Fleet. He had a world-weary manner but he inspired more confidence in Maude than his younger colleague had. He read silently through a sheet of notes and then looked up.

  ‘We’ll find him, Mrs Brent. Don’t worry. It’s just a matter of time. I’m going to run through what we have so far and you must add anything you think relevant or correct anything you think is wrong.’

  Maude nodded without speaking. She had promised herself she would not cry. She would hold herself together and would not invite pity or compassion. Finding Lionel was all important and breaking down would help no-one. She sipped her tea and listened attentively.

  ‘Your husband, Lionel Brent, failed to return from a shopping expedition yesterday and this is totally out of character so you are naturally worried. He hasn’t yet been absent for twenty-four hours but if he doesn’t return shortly we will have to take further steps.’

  He looked up and she nodded.

  ‘So far the only possible clue to his disappearance is a young man by the name of Jem who came to your house – that is Fairways, in Folkestone. Can you tell me anything else about him?’

  Maude sat back and clasped her hands to prevent them from trembling. ‘He said he had something for Lionel and wouldn’t give it to anyone else. We sent him away because my husband was at work in London—’

  ‘The Barlowe Gallery?’

  ‘Yes. When Lionel came home he said the man had been waiting for him at the railway station and had given the envelope to him.’

  ‘So you saw the contents of the envelope?’

  ‘No. But it was some printed material about events that were taking place in Hastings in August and they were for the wrong dates because we were going now, in June.’

  ‘So you didn’t see the enclosures.’

  ‘No, because Lionel had thrown them into the rubbish bin on the station.’

  Immediately his expression changed. ‘Let’s get this straight, Mrs Brent.’ He leaned forward and the world-weary manner had sharpened. ‘If he threw the contents into the bin on the station platform, then he must have been given the envelope on the platform so presumably this Jem character didn’t wait for him outside the ticket barrier. And yet your husband said they were simply publicity flyers for entertainment venues in Hastings. Didn’t you think that a bit odd?’

  Maude stared at him. ‘Not at the time but I do now.’ Thinking back she tried to recall anything else Lionel had told her.

  He went on. ‘Your husband thought the contents so important he remained on the platform and opened the envelope! He didn’t know they were the wrong dates so I would have expected him to open them when he got home.’

  He drummed his fingers on the table and Maude felt a shiver of apprehension. This was so unexpected and yet, at the time, she had never given it a second thought.

  He narrowed his eyes. ‘Does your husband have any enemies, Mrs Brent, or anyone who dislikes him? A rejected artist, perhaps, who was angry at your husband’s decision not to accept his painting? Would he tell you that sort of thing?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ she admitted. ‘He hates me to be worried about anything unpleasant. If he thought he was shielding me from some unpleasantness then I dare say he might have kept it to himself.’ Her eyes widened. ‘Are you saying . . . Are you suggesting that someone has deliberately hurt my husband?’

  ‘We can’t rule anything out. This Jem – if he really did come from the Romilees as you were led to believe, the owners will know about it. We’ll check that later and have a word with him. There might have been something else in the envelope – something your husband didn’t want you to see. Maybe a threat. Does your husband gamble? Would you know if he does? Could he be in debt?’

  Maude felt her heart thudding behind her ribs. Hardly able to speak, she cried, ‘You think someone’s hurt him! You do!’

  ‘We think it’s a possibility. On the other hand, sometimes people want to disappear. They have good reasons. Something in their past maybe catches up with them and they need to get away. Go on the run, as we say.’

  With a shaking hand Maude reached for her tea and took a mouthful. It was almost cold but it eased the dryness in her throat. She said, ‘You make him sound like a criminal! He isn’t. He’s a good, honest, gentle man.’

  ‘I’m sure he is but you do understand, I hope, that we have to think of the worst that co
uld have happened. We have to face up to reality and in our opinion there are secrets that everyone hides.’

  ‘Not Lionel! Never! I know him better than you do.’

  He regarded her unhappily. ‘Mrs Brent, please tell me what you imagine may have happened. You must have some inkling.’

  ‘I think he’s lost his memory or . . . been in an accident . . . or he’s trapped somewhere . . .’A new idea came to her. ‘He might have been stranded by the tide somewhere by the cliffs or hurt his ankle in a fall and no-one can hear his calls for help. Something good. I mean, not good exactly, but nothing criminal or bad or . . .’

  ‘Does he swim, Mrs Brent? The tides here can be . . .’

  ‘The tides? Oh, don’t say such a thing! He hasn’t drowned. No, I won’t even think it.’ She put a hand to her heart and took a deep breath. No hysterics. Calm yourself, Maude. She said, ‘No, Lionel doesn’t swim . . . as far as I know.’

  ‘Does he suffer from depression? Has he ever suffered from it?’

  ‘No! Quite the opposite.’ She regarded him desperately. ‘I’m sure he will . . . reappear. He’ll make his way home and that’s where I want to be. Can’t I go back to Folkestone, Mr – I mean—’

  ‘DC Fleet, and if you want to help us to find him, you’ll stay here for a while longer. If we find this Jem I shall need you to identify him as the man who entered your garden. Then we’ll interview him and that may be the starting point that leads us to your husband.’ He leaned forward. ‘You’re booked in here for a week. This is where he expects you to be. Stay another day or two, Mrs Brent. It won’t be easy but it might help us to discover the truth. Will you do that?’

  She nodded.

  He smiled suddenly and she saw a softer side of him. His expression was warmer and his eyes had lost their hard glint.

  ‘Please understand that we will do everything we can and we always hope for a very rational ending, but we wouldn’t be doing our duty if we didn’t look on the dark side. If we delay, the leads dry up and we can’t solve the crime – if there is a crime.’ She nodded earnestly and he continued. ‘At present this Jem might be the man we need. He can tell us who gave him the envelope that seems to be somehow relevant to your husband’s disappearance. Trust us, Mrs Brent. We are on your side.’

  He smiled and Maude felt herself relax marginally. She wanted to trust him and she longed to believe that Lionel would be returned to her. Her life – that is her real life – had somehow been snatched away from her and minutes later as she left the police station, she was clinging to the idea that DC Fleet would be the man to restore it to her.

  Biddy sat up in bed at close to midnight with her diary open on her knees and a pencil in her hand. Earlier in the day Maude had phoned and had explained what was happening and why, at the moment, she felt unable to come home. Biddy and Alice had talked of nothing else all day but neither had been able to think of anything useful to add to the investigation. Now, forgetting her Ovaltine on the bedside table, Biddy wrote in her diary.

  ‘Monday, June 12th. Our lives are turned upside down by the tragedy of Lionel’s disappearance. How can a grown man vanish leaving no trace? It’s impossible and yet it’s happened. Poor dear Maude. My heart aches for her. She is trying to be so brave and to keep up her hopes but I have this terrible feeling that things will get worse not better. I’ve tried praying but it seems to have gone unnoticed by Him.

  Even Primmy is affected by the mystery and mopes about the house, not a bit like her usual excitable self. Poor little dog. She cannot possibly understand what is going on and we can’t explain it to her. All she knows is that Lionel and Maude are both gone.

  I made a huge chocolate cake to cheer me and Alice up but we both ate too much and felt sick afterwards.

  Last night we forgot the croquet set and left it on the lawn and it rained hard and it all got wet so we shall have to bring it into the kitchen to dry it off before Maude comes back.

  I just keep hoping that in the morning Lionel will turn up and this will all have been a dreadful nightmare and we can go back to the way we were. Please God let it happen that way. If anything has happened to Lionel it will break Maude’s heart forever . . .’

  Biddy closed the book and slid it under the pillow. Discovering that her forgotten Ovaltine was now stone cold she uttered a word not suitable in decent company and slid down under the sheets.

  FOUR

  The following morning, Tuesday, Penny and Meg arrived at the Romilees Hotel within minutes of each other and were soon together in the Bluebell Room, comparing notes about the event that was taking centre stage in everyone’s life. The local newspapers were full of the mystery and various people had been interviewed for their insights into the disappearance of one of the guests from the well-known hotel.

  Meg was wide-eyed with excitement as Penny described what had happened when the police tried to talk to Jem.

  ‘They only knew where he lived because of me,’ she told her friend as they began to strip the bed. Penny was trying hard not to feel superior. ‘When they asked if any of us knew of anyone called Jem I told them about the chap next door to Tom because it could have been the same man. I mean Jem’s about my age although he looks younger but it could be him. Tom says this constable turned up on the doorstep and Jem’s mother, that’s Mrs Rider, made out he wasn’t there and said they were victimizing him just because he was a bit wayward . . . or was it backward?’

  ‘Well, he is! Both.’

  ‘But she’s a funny woman. Tom reckoned she’s a bit like a witch only fatter and if you cross her she’ll give you the evil eye! Like a spell. Not that she’s got black hair – hers is a bit gingery – but she’s got piercing eyes.’

  Together they began to clean the bathroom. Penny threw damp towels out of the door into the basket on the landing, gave the bath mat a shake, draped it over the sill of the open window and began to rub Vim around the bath with a damp cloth. Meg cleaned the basin and polished the mirror above the sink.

  Penny went on. ‘She refused to let him in – the policeman I mean – so they went away but Tom had seen Jem looking out his bedroom window, so he got on his bike and went after the police to tell them but when they got back, Jem had gone. Run off somewhere. So Tom thinks he must know something or why would he run off like that? Made him look guilty.’ She straightened up from the bath. ‘That’ll have to do. I’ll start on the bed.’

  Meg said, ‘That poor Mrs Brent. She looks so pale and her eyes are all red from crying. If I were her I’d go home.’

  Just then the door of the room opened and, as if somehow summoned, Mrs Brent came nervously into the room. Both young women stared at her.

  She said, ‘I understand one of you knows this Jem. Mrs Cobb told me.’

  Meg said,‘It’s her. Penny. She knows him.’

  Penny said, ‘It’s not me exactly. My young man lives next door to him.’

  ‘Please tell me anything you know about him. I understand the police were going to interview him.’

  Penny and Meg exchanged startled looks.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Brent,’ Penny said, ‘but I’ve never even seen him. I only hear about him from Tom. He says Jem’s a bit of a tearaway and often in trouble with the police but that’s all I know . . . except his mother’s a bit sort of scary. Tom saw the policeman arrive and Jem was in the house but his mother said he wasn’t and as soon as they’d gone away Jem went out.’ She shrugged.

  ‘Oh!’ Mrs Brent’s face fell. ‘So he hasn’t been interviewed.’

  ‘Not yet.’

  She hesitated. ‘Would you say this Jem was . . . violent? I’m wondering if he might have . . . done something to my husband.’ Her voice was shaking. ‘Whether he might have . . . hurt him. I saw him, you see, when he came to my house, but only briefly and I didn’t look at him seriously. I had no idea . . .’ She pulled a handkerchief from her pocket and pressed it to her eyes.

  She looked, thought Meg, as though she might faint at any moment. ‘I don’t t
hink he’d hurt anyone,’ she said quickly. ‘Not violent. No. Not Jem Rider. Just up to no good. Pinching things off doorsteps and name-calling and . . . and throwing stones at cats. He was in my class at school and when he turned up he was always getting the cane but no, I don’t think he’d do anybody any real harm. Would he, Penny?’

  ‘Not from what I hear.’

  Mrs Brent uncovered her eyes and took a deep breath. To Penny she said, ‘If you do hear anything else, would you let me know? I’m staying here for another night but I may go home tomorrow.’

  ‘I will, yes. Try not to worry. The detective is really good at his job. You’re lucky to have him on the case. He’s got a wonderful reputation.’ She smiled reassuringly.

  ‘That’s good news. Thank you. You’ve really helped me. I must let you get on with your work.’

  When she’d gone Meg looked at Penny with raised eyebrows. ‘The detective is wonderful? Good at his job? What do you know about him?’

  ‘Nothing,’ Penny admitted, ‘but she’s in such a state. I just wanted to cheer her up.’

  Emily Rider heard the front-door bell and swore under her breath. She went into the front room, looked out through the thick net curtain and swore again. The man on the doorstep wasn’t in uniform but she knew the type. A detective. They were back.

  ‘I knew it! I just knew it!’ She put a hand to her heart and tried to compose her features. Never let the police think you’re scared. Her husband had said that more times than she cared to remember before he took himself off four years earlier – and good riddance to him! In and out of prison like a blasted yo-yo!

  On the way to the front door she pushed back her lank hair, which was now a faded auburn, and smoothed her floral pinafore over plump hips. She also struggled to forget her anger with Jem. Must keep calm in front of the police. They were like bloodhounds. If they thought she had anything to hide they’d be on her like a pack of wolves.