by Cathy Ace
After a short discussion about the pros and cons of taking a case with no real certainty of an income balancing their effort, the decision was finally taken to proceed with Val’s case and submit a proposal. Christine’s empty schedule and ability to easily connect with an art expert she knew from her schooldays settled the matter, and it was agreed Carol would draw up the appropriate contract, while Christine would put out feelers to get hold of her connection.
Carol closed the conversation with: ‘That’s the best start we can make, Christine, to find out if the miniatures are the real thing. I’ll concentrate on trying to find out more about the person who owned the books in which the drawings were made. It’s an unusual name, so I might have a bit of luck. There can’t be many people named Daisy Dickens about the place.’
‘I once knew a Daisy Dickens,’ said Althea quietly. ‘When Chelly and I were embedded with the hunting set, there was a girl by that name who had an exceptionally good seat. Plain, but a very good rider. Married a chap whose name I can’t recall, though I do remember it began with a “D”.’
‘That seems like a very odd fact to retain, dear,’ said Mavis.
‘Oh, I don’t know about odd. I know it struck me at the time she was fortunate to marry someone with the same initial – it meant none of her monograms would have to be changed.’
Mavis shook her head. ‘Ach, what it must be to live a life where changing monograms is top of the list of things you worry about.’ She smiled warmly at Althea, who grinned back.
Carol said, ‘The books were pretty recent volumes. Collections of photographs of Swansea over the years. Do you think they might have belonged to “your” Daisy Dickens, Althea? Mind you, if she’d married, why would she write her maiden name in a book in any case?’
Althea waved her little hand. ‘You’re right, why would one? I never use my maiden name on anything. Indeed, I haven’t written that name for – oh, almost fifty years. I wonder how it would feel.’ She reached out, took a pen and paper from the nearest desk and wrote carefully. She looked at her handiwork. ‘Althea Liversedge. I wonder what became of her,’ she mused.
‘Liversedge?’ chorused Carol, Mavis and Christine.
Althea smiled. ‘I was glad when it changed to Twyst, I can tell you that. It’s a place, you know. In Yorkshire. I expect one of my forebears from long ago on my father’s side came from there.’
‘Aye, well, whatever it might mean, I dinnae think we can take it that this person you knew years ago can be the same as the one who wrote their name in the books Carol saw.’
‘I’ll do some name searches,’ said Carol.
‘And I’ll phone a few old friends to find out what happened to my Daisy Dickens,’ said Althea huffily.
Mavis gave the dowager an indulgent sideways glance. ‘That cannae hurt, I’m sure.’ She stood, signaling the end of the meeting, and began to clear the table of its accumulated cups. ‘With that settled, I’m off to Brecon for my meeting within the hour, so I’ll walk with you back to the Dower House to pick up my wee car.’
‘Hang on a mo,’ called Carol as she peered at her computer screen. ‘I’ve got a reply here from Bryn Jenkins already. Give me a second to read it.’ Mavis resumed her seat. ‘OK. Well now, that’s interesting. He says the bloke in the photos is another bookseller he knows. One who specializes in non-fiction, it seems. Bryn has phoned the man, who tells him he put the books on the table outside Bryn’s shop because they’d mysteriously turned up at his shop last week and he knew they were just what Bryn would want.’ Carol looked up. ‘So it seems it isn’t only Bryn who’s received books out of the blue. He said he’d asked around his mates about this, didn’t he, Mavis?’
‘Indeed he did, and he assured us it was something that had only happened at his shop.’
‘Well, it seems that’s not quite right after all,’ replied Carol. ‘He’s delighted to find he’s not alone, and impressed we sent him the photos without charging him.’ Carol smiled, trying not to gloat. ‘He’s also asked us for a formal quote and a contract for carrying out the surveillance at his shop to spot the real book-depositor. Oh, wait – here’s another email from Val, who’s already signed our contract. What a morning!’
Albert decided to wake up from his nap as the women were hugging and congratulating each other on their success, so Carol took him into the loo to change his nappy while plans were made for Christine to get started on The Case of the Murdered Miniaturist – a title coined by Annie before she’d left to work on her own case of the Sticky-Fingered Sweet Sorter.
SIX
Alexander Bright was angry. He didn’t usually allow himself the indulgence of that emotion, but, on this occasion, he felt the best thing to do was to let his feelings pour out of him into the punchbag in his home gym. Each thwack was accompanied by a choice curse, and he pictured the faces of his adversaries collapsing beneath the force of his fists. Fifteen minutes of pounding later, he sat in his steam room unwrapping his knuckles, then plunged them into ice water. He cursed himself for having given in to his baser instincts; he prided himself on having contained his angry streak back in his twenties, but it seemed it still lurked beneath his controlled exterior, ready to reassert itself when he gave it the least excuse. Even when he was cleansed, shaved, moisturized and dressed, he still felt grubby; that was how anger made him feel – as though he was rolling around in the filth where he’d been raised.
Sliding into his Aston Martin he pressed the accelerator and nosed into the weekend traffic crawling along the south bank of the Thames. He had a couple of meetings to attend in Brixton before heading over to Christine Wilson-Smythe’s flat in Battersea that evening. She’d phoned him to say she’d be in London by about three o’clock, and they’d agreed to grab an early bite to eat at their favorite place on Battersea High Street.
Christine had sounded excited when she’d told him she wanted to talk to him about a new case she was working on. Alexander hoped he’d be able to help her out; he enjoyed working alongside her on her investigations when he could.
He’d missed her while she’d been away working on a case for a week. There was nothing more he wanted in life than to be close to her, to experience the pleasure he felt when he saw how her mind worked, how she approached a problem. And she wasn’t just bright – he’d witnessed her courage and fearlessness on many an occasion. Indeed, he wondered if it was the fact she could sometimes be a little reckless that he found so attractive. He knew she’d accepted his own dark history as something he’d grown beyond, but he suspected it held a certain appeal for her nonetheless. High-born she might be, but, as the daughter of a cash-poor Irish viscount who’d spent all he could on her education, she’d had to make her own way in the world since then, and had done an excellent job of it. This new career of hers as a private enquiry agent was certainly keeping her interested, and Alexander saw its attraction for her sharp, butterfly-mind; a fresh case every few weeks, different people to investigate.
The fact she wanted to talk to him about a new case boded well – maybe it was something she thought he could help with. He hoped so. If she saw him as useful, maybe then she’d see she couldn’t live without him – the same thing he felt about her. But for now, that was too much to hope for. He recognized she’d set up several opportunities for him to spend time with her parents, which he knew was a good sign, but he had to bite his lip every time he watched her sleep and imagined her walking down the aisle toward him. She was the daughter of a viscount – he was the son of an absent father and an alcoholic mother. However rich he’d become, however studied his newly-invented persona, he’d always be that. True, Christine had accepted his past, but he still felt it wasn’t the right time to make his bid for the ultimate happiness.
However, before their planned meeting that evening, he had a tricky situation to deal with. Some developers he knew, and had run up against in the past, were trying to get their hands on several houses in south London he’d had his eye on for some time. He’d learned the
y’d been waging a war of attrition against the current residents of the houses in question, trying to bring them to the point where they were so miserable in their surroundings they’d sell up for a song. While Alexander knew that meant he’d be able to snap up their houses for a good price, he was concerned about the well-being of the people being terrorized by a gang of hired thugs who were making their street a no-go area after dark. He’d organized a meeting with the homeowners at a local community center, and they’d been delighted to listen to his proposals, to which they’d reacted positively. He’d won them over by offering to buy their homes, renovate them, then rent them out, either to them, or to others who needed low-cost housing.
However, he knew he also had to get the attack dogs called off by the people who’d given them their orders. He was too well acquainted with the reputations of his competitors to easily believe a civilized meeting with them would achieve his goals, but he was concerned that most of the alternatives available to him would involve some sort of violence. He was doing his best to change. Because of Christine. He owed it to what he hoped could be a future with her to not do what he’d have done a year earlier – namely hire a group of his own thugs to overthrow those of his competitors – but to try a different approach.
SEVEN
Henry Twyst crept along the largely-unused ground-floor corridor of the east wing of Chellingworth Hall, hoping his sister wouldn’t hear him from inside her apartment farther along in the same direction. He finally reached the small dining room – the one the Twysts hadn’t used in years for its original purpose – and opened the door just enough to see what was going on inside. He needed to talk to his wife, but knew better than to interrupt the proceedings of the committee she was chairing. As he peered through a crack, he took in the scene before him.
‘Point of order, Your Grace,’ said Tudor Evans, his face pink with annoyance, ‘I believe the bylaws of the committee state that the responsibility for temporary lavatories falls to the logistics sub-committee.’
The eyes of the fifteen members of the Chellingworth Summer Fete Committee all turned toward Henry’s wife, seated at the head of the long, highly-polished table around which the meeting was moving into its third hour. Despite the open windows, the room was warm, the air heavy with tension. Henry could almost smell the frustration.
Stephanie Twyst opened her mouth to respond, only to be interrupted by Marjorie Pritchard, which shocked Henry.
‘If Your Grace will permit, I have to say Mr Evans is incorrect in his assertion. The temporary lavatories have always fallen on the Young Wives Group, and I would suggest they should do so once again.’
A flurry of throat clearing and sipping of water broke out around the table, and Henry knew his wife well enough to spot her stifling a giggle as she stood.
‘We’ve dwelt on this topic for so long I feel a short nature-break is in order,’ she said loudly, making eye contact with her husband. ‘I suggest we reconvene in ten minutes, at which time I hope we can wrap this up and move on to the fourth topic on our agenda.’
Henry extended his arm through the half-open door to beckon to his wife as chairs were pushed back from the table and people stood, stretching and yawning.
Stephanie joined her husband in the corridor that led toward the great hall. He pulled her into a small reading room, and shut the door.
Once they were inside, Stephanie let rip with some choice language Henry didn’t think befitting of a duchess. ‘If I don’t kill one of those two – Tudor or Marjorie – before this fete is over I’ll deserve a medal,’ she finished.
‘It all sounds a little trying,’ said Henry as sympathetically as possible. He was wondering about the wisdom of raising his current concerns with his wife, given the mood she was in.
‘So what is it, Henry? I haven’t got long, so just get to the point.’
Henry suddenly wasn’t sure where to begin. He felt relieved when his wife’s eyes softened and she touched his face, gently.
‘I’m sorry, Henry. I have no reason to speak to you so sharply. What’s up?’
‘It’s Clemmie …’ he began, his heart sinking as he uttered the words.
‘Has she fired Nurse Thomas again?’
‘No. Not this time. Nurse Thomas has resigned. She says she’s leaving this afternoon. She said she’s not just resigning from this post, but from nursing altogether. I can’t find Mother; they told me at the Dower House she went off to the agency’s office this morning, but there’s no answer there. I think your idea of getting her a mobile phone is a good one. She’s always so difficult to track down these days. Maybe for her birthday? I haven’t had any other ideas about what to get her.’
Stephanie sighed. ‘Oh, Henry. I don’t really think a mobile phone is a suitable gift for a woman who’s done as much for the community, this ducal seat – and you – as your mother has when she reaches the age of eighty. But we can talk about that some other time. As for Nurse Thomas? You can see I can’t do anything. But I know you could win her over, dearest. She likes you. She always has. Give it a go? And, if it’s not working, maybe Mavis MacDonald could lend a hand.’
‘If I could find Mavis, I’d find Mother,’ said Henry. ‘Thick as thieves the pair of them.’
Stephanie smiled. Henry couldn’t work out what the expression on her face meant when she replied, ‘They’re good friends, that’s for sure. Kindred souls. Bring out the child in each other they do, and that’s not a bad thing. We might all be glad of that one day, when we’ve forgotten what it’s like to have more ahead of us than behind.’
‘I’m in my late fifties. I’m pretty sure I have less of my life ahead of me than I’ve lived,’ said Henry. ‘You’re so much younger than me, you’ll be a young dowager when I die. You should think about remarrying.’
Stephanie reached around her husband’s ample middle and hugged him tight. Looking up at him, she smiled. ‘You silly sausage. Stop talking about me needing to remarry when you’re gone – we’re only just starting out, you and me. Not quite four months, that’s all we’ve had so far. Though, I have to admit the last few hours feel like that amount of time all on their own.’ Henry saw her glance anxiously at her watch. ‘Do what you can with Nurse Thomas, Henry dear, and I’ll try to get this meeting wrapped up as quickly as possible, then I’ll find you. We can sort this out together, I’m sure. But now, I must get back.’
After his wife had left him, Henry dawdled for a moment or two, putting off the confrontation with Nurse Thomas as long as he dared. When he eventually scuttled out of the reading room, he was relieved to run into Bob Fernley, his estate manager.
‘Ah Bob, just the chap,’ said Henry, making the man jump. ‘How are things going? Everything running along smoothly? All tickety-boo?’
He thought Bob looked a bit frightened as he heartily slapped him on the back, but he couldn’t imagine why that would be the case. He made an effort to smile warmly, but Bob backed away.
‘Everything seems to be just about alright, Your Grace,’ the man replied hesitantly.
‘Jolly good. Jolly good,’ said Henry loudly, and steered the man toward the back corridors which led to the estate office. The two chatted about matters of no real consequence until they were sitting at Bob’s desk.
‘I don’t suppose you’ve seen the dowager this morning have you, Bob?’
‘Indeed I have. Her Grace was making her way, with McFli, to see Ivor at the Orangery about an hour ago.’
‘Really? Did she say why?’
Bob Fernley fiddled with the collar of his shirt. ‘Her Grace said something about a beehive, and then mentioned—’ he cleared his throat, loudly – ‘dead women and buckets of blood.’ Henry noticed the man’s Adam’s apple bouncing around as he swallowed hard.
‘Really?’ Henry paused, then leaned in toward Bob. ‘Do you happen to know if that’s anything to do with that Monty Python lot?’
‘Not that I’m aware, Your Grace.’
‘Know their work, do you, Bob?’
‘Pretty well, Your Grace, yes.’
‘One of them was Welsh, I understand,’ added Henry, wishing to appear knowledgeable.
‘Terry Jones. He still is, Your Grace,’ replied Bob, standing. ‘If that’s all, Your Grace, I should be …’ He moved toward the door.
Henry knew he had to let the man get on with his work, and waved him off. Unfortunately that meant he was free to try to sort out the mess with Nurse Thomas. He decided to make one final effort to reach his mother, so picked up the phone and dialed the number for the Dower House. He was confused when his mother herself answered the call.
‘Mother?’
‘Henry.’
‘Why did you answer the phone?’
‘Because it rang, dear.’
‘But where’s Jennifer? She usually answers.’
‘Indeed she does, but she’s downstairs with Cook.’
‘And Ian?’
‘Poking about under the bonnet of the Gilbern.’
‘Has it broken down again?’
‘No, but it requires maintenance, dear.’
‘Oh. I see. So what’s all this about, Mother? Bob Fernley tells me you’ve been talking to Ivor the head gardener about dead women and oodles of blood.’
‘No dear. Bees. I’ve been talking to Ivor about bees. I’ve been talking about dead women on the telephone, which is why I was sitting next to it.’
‘Why would you do that, Mother?’ Henry was perplexed.
