by Cathy Ace
As Althea sat on a chair, Annie helped her rub her ankles and wrists while Carol was phoning the local constabulary.
‘You poor thing, Althea, we’ve all been so worried about you. I can imagine what’s been going through your mind,’ said Annie, ‘having been kidnapped myself, I know how bleak it can feel.’
‘Aye,’ agreed Mavis, ‘this must have been a terrible time for you, my dear. You and I can have a cuppa and talk it all through when you’re feeling up to it.’
‘When I’m feeling up to it? I’m up to it now. That hateful man. He treated me like so much rubbish, he did, and thought he could get away with it. You see, when you’re young and lovely, everyone notices you. They certainly noticed me – I was known to be quite vivacious in my youth and from then on I was a duchess, so of course, everyone took notice of me. They didn’t all like me, and I know for a fact some were quite critical of me behind my back, but everyone knew I existed. Being this Gladys Pugh for a few days has shown me how elderly women are invisible to almost everyone. Fred Cruickshank made it very clear to me he didn’t see me as a person; he just saw a wrinkled face, a beige two-piece and a bad wig. He saw a thing, not a person. And a thing that could make trouble for him because I asked that William Williams some questions he didn’t like. That’s what started all this, Mavis – it’s that young man who set Fred on me, I know that for a fact. They’re as bad as each other.’
‘Aye, and they’ll both have to answer for it,’ replied Mavis.
‘It’s terrible, to be seen as a thing,’ continued Althea, the words spilling out of her. ‘It’s never dawned on me before that’s what happens in the real world. I’ve spoken to a few of the ladies here about it and they all agree with me, but they say they’ve got used to it. As they’ve become wives, mothers, grandmothers and widows they’ve just become less and less visible. It’s dreadful to think what society is losing. All that wisdom. All that knowledge. And you know what, it’s not just because we’re old, it’s because we’re women. I’ve never had any time for those feminist types, but I might look into what they say a bit more deeply now. It can’t all be about burning bras. Can it?’
Carol smiled. ‘Maybe the bra-burning thing was just a gimmick, a good way to get the attention of the men who ran the media back then. Of course it’s still mainly men who run the media today, so maybe they didn’t take as much notice as they should have done. But it’s funny you should say that. I’ve been wondering if I’ll ever have a life beyond being Albert’s mam and David’s wife. I used to be Carol, now I’m not anymore. It’s a bit weird.’
‘I was always accorded attention because of my role and my rank,’ said Mavis. ‘But I know you’re right – without my uniform, I seem to dissolve into the background.’
‘I wish I could do that,’ said Annie. ‘Dissolve a bit. It’s all well and good being a tall black woman in London, but hereabouts? Let’s just say I’m trying to grow an extra-thick layer of skin and not slouch all the time. But I know what you mean.’
‘What can we do about it?’ said Althea. ‘Women are important. They get things done. They make life run smoothly. Why aren’t we recognized for it?’
Carol tried not to laugh aloud. ‘I think you might have hit upon an age-old question, Althea. I’m not sure there are any easy answers or solutions.’
‘Men!’ said Althea.
‘There, there, now dear, don’t take on so,’ said Mavis in her most soothing tones. ‘There’s a time and place for everything, and maybe trying to sort out the gender bias in the world is no’ the topic for right now, eh? Besides, I need to have a serious chat with Sarah over there. Will you be alright gathering yourself, while I take her away to the office?’
‘Go, I’ll be fine.’
FORTY-TWO
Mavis escorted Sarah to the upstairs office, sat her down and said, ‘We understand you have been depositing books at bookshops in Hay-on-Wye as a way to get rid of them, would that be correct?’
Sarah’s expression changed from one of apprehension to surprise. ‘Well, yes, though what business that is of yours, I’ve no idea. Besides, now isn’t really the time for that – is it? I don’t understand what’s going on here.’
‘Now is the time. Explain your actions,’ snapped Mavis.
Sarah Cruickshank was clearly taken aback. ‘I’ve been giving away books to bookshops so they can sell them. What’s the problem with that? Everyone wants something for nothing, don’t they?’
‘Maybe you and your husband do, but the fact remains the people in whose shops you left those books need to be sure they were yours to give, so they know they aren’t selling on stolen goods.’
‘Stolen goods? What? I’ve never heard anything like it. This is nothing to do with anything. Why was that woman locked up in my laundry room? And why would she say my Fred did that to her? Why would Mrs Pugh say that?’
‘Her name’s not Gladys Pugh, it’s Althea Twyst. And she has no reason to lie. The police will be here presently. If we can locate Mr Cruickshank he can explain his actions at that time, though I have to say I suspect he’s long gone by now.’ Mavis consulted her watch. ‘Aye, he’s had a couple o’ hours’ head start.’
‘Long gone? Why would Fred be long gone? He hasn’t done anything wrong.’
‘Other than kidnapping a dowager duchess and confining her against her will, as well as running a swindling scam of your residents, no, he hasn’t done anything wrong at all,’ snapped Mavis.
Sarah stood, shaking with what Mavis judged to be anger. ‘I don’t know who you lot are, but you’re bonkers, the lot of you. I’m glad the police are on their way, because I’ll have a few things to tell them about you lot, I will. Wait – who did you say that woman downstairs is? Althea Twyst? The old duchess? What was she doing, going about the place in disguise? This is more than a bit fishy, is this.’
Sarah’s terror having subsided into anger, Mavis went in for the kill. ‘Tell me about the books you’ve been leaving about the place, Sarah – that’ll help us get to the bottom of it all.’
Sarah’s expression suggested it would do no such thing, but she grumpily replied, ‘Proper antique places don’t buy books these days, and with Hay-on-Wye on our doorstep I thought for sure someone there would want the books. Our residents only bring books here with them that have meant a lot to them, see, so most of them are really old. Family books – from the times when families had books. I walked my feet off to start with, going to bookshop after bookshop asking if anyone wanted to buy them. Turned their noses up at the lot of them they all did. There was something not right with the binding, or it wasn’t the right edition or some such. Flat out turned me away they all did. So what could I do with them all? You can’t take books to the dump. They aren’t something you just dispose of like so much rubbish. A book means something, it does. Someone wrote it, printed it, bound it – not to mention the ones who read them, held them and maybe cried into them. I love books I do, they’ve all had a life – like a person. I’ve kept as many as possible over the years, but I haven’t got time to read them all and … well, there are just too many for me to keep them all. So I decided to set them free – give them to places that could find them good homes.’
‘So you’re happy for the bookshop owners to sell them on as their own?’
Making an expansive gesture, Sarah replied smiling, ‘Yes. Whatever. Set them free in the world, that’s what I say. I give them away to people who love books. They can do what they want with them – they’re theirs now.’
‘Thank you, Mrs Cruickshank. Is that what you did with the books left to you by Daisy Davies in her will?’
‘Daisy?’ The woman was puzzled again. ‘No, not hers. They all went to the shops before she died, they did. Asked us to do it especially because she wanted a bit more space in her room. Nothing to do with us, they weren’t. They were hers to give. I just transported them for her.’
‘Music to my ears, Sarah. Thanks for that. That’s a very significant piece of information.
Now, tell me, do you know your husband sells a good many antiques about the place?’
‘Fred?’ Sarah sounded surprised. ‘Well, I don’t know about that. I might have seen him go off to the markets with the odd pot or two now and again.’
‘What happens when someone dies and leaves you everything? One of your residents?’ asked Mavis.
‘Us? Why would they leave us anything? They might leave something to the MAH Trust, but then a lorry comes and takes all their stuff away, and the trust liquidates it.’
‘And who is “the trust” exactly?’
Sarah examined her fingernails. ‘That’s Fred’s area, not mine. I’m too busy with this place. He sorts all that. Why? What are you saying?’
Mavis told Sarah about William Williams, her husband, and their suspected scheme. By the time the police arrived, Sarah was in floods of tears, terrified about facing a difficult interview and heartbroken her husband had clearly left the premises hours earlier, knowing the entire scheme was about to come crashing down around his ears. Mavis agreed to stay with the woman to explain to the police she was certain only Fred Cruickshank had been involved in the shady dealings that had been going on at the home.
The arrival of a police car itself wasn’t noticed by most of the people enjoying the concert party, and Althea waved off all attempts to prevent her from standing at the back of the lounge to be able to take in the performance of three elderly women dressed in highly stylized Japanese garb wiggling onto the little stage giggling like schoolgirls, then excused herself. The applause increased when a young man also dressed in a kimono took his seat at the upright piano beside the stage and began playing the introduction to ‘Three Little Maids.’ When Mavis joined Annie and Carol she hissed, ‘Where’s Althea?’
‘Gone to the loo,’ replied Annie.
‘Then who’s that, down there at the front, by the stage?’ asked Mavis.
‘Gordon Bennett, what’s she up to now?’ whispered Annie loudly enough that a few people turned to shush her.
After Megs, Mabel and Maisie had curtsied many times, and finally tottered away, Althea mounted the stage dressed, once again, as Gladys Pugh. The crowd settled.
‘I was due to recite Fern Hill, by Dylan Thomas,’ announced Althea in Gladys’s accent, ‘but I haven’t had the time I’d like to rehearse it properly, and I do so want to do it well that I hope it’s alright with everyone if I read it, rather than reciting it from memory.’ A ripple of applause ran through the room.
Carol was glad she already had a handful of tissues, because she knew she was going to need them. ‘Have you ever heard this, or read it?’ she whispered to Annie.
Annie mouthed back, ‘Nah, not my cup of tea.’
‘It’s about the poet remembering the times when he visited his aunt’s farm when he was a boy and didn’t realize how few times in life we get to feel truly free and happy. By the end he’s talking about how old age is catching up with him, and he realizes he’s facing his own mortality. It’s quite something.’ Annie shrugged, and they gave their attention to Althea’s small figure.
When Althea had finished her performance – for it was so much more than a simple reading – nothing happened at all for a good five seconds or so, and Carol knew she’d been right; she could hear the odd sob in the audience before rapturous applause broke out, and Althea blushed as she took her standing ovation with grace and good humor.
Mavis rushed through the crowd to help the dowager off the little platform, and Carol could see even she had been crying.
‘Give us one of them hankies,’ said Annie quietly. ‘Quick, before Mave sees me.’
Annie took a wad of tissue from her friend and they were both looking quite composed by the time Althea met them in the doorway, accepting many thanks and congratulations from audience members along the way.
‘Time to go now, I think,’ said Mavis as the women regrouped at the back of the room. Althea nodded.
A pale-faced Sarah Cruickshank joined them at the front door. ‘I’ll never be able to forgive my husband, and I don’t expect you to forgive me, Gladys. I mean, Your Grace. He never told me what he’d been up to. I never knew anything about it, honest I didn’t,’ she blubbed.
‘Quite often, people aren’t what they appear to be on the surface,’ said Mavis, and the women took their leave.
FORTY-THREE
Saturday 5th July
The day of the Chellingworth Summer Fete was just about as perfect a day as could be hoped for in Wales, in early July. The sky was pale cobalt with a smattering of fluffy white clouds, the air was freshened by a light breeze and the afternoon temperatures were forecast to be good, but not uncomfortably hot.
The snowy marquees dotting the emerald grass had been erected and furnished over the preceding days, so all that remained on Saturday morning was for them to be filled with whatever was appropriate to their particular role. In one, tables were decked with cakes to be judged, floral arrangements were made ready to be assessed and even photographic displays by schoolchildren were set up to be admired. Bryn Jenkins and his fellow members of the Hay Booksellers’ Association brought their wares and displayed them to the best of their considerable abilities in another. Marjorie Pritchard appeared in full gypsy paraphernalia to take up her spot in the fortune-telling tent and graciously complimented young Sharon Jones, who ran the Post Office and general store in Anwen, on her oversight of the production of hundreds of sandwiches, the preparation of several tea urns and gallons of cold drinks in the largest marquee of all.
The fairground-style entertainments were fully furnished with stuffed toys, pellet guns were checked for accuracy when targeting metal ducks and the coconut shy was presented with tickets that could be redeemed in the refreshment tent as prizes. The gates were due to open at eleven thirty, and an hour before the appointed time it seemed as though everything was on track to allow for a successful event.
A tour of the significant artworks housed at Chellingworth Hall was led by Henry and Stephanie, accompanied by the WISE women, Nurse Thomas – wearing what she insisted upon calling ‘mufti’ – and the group of men from London Jeremy Edgerton had assembled.
Gwen Llewellyn had sent the piece of artwork deemed necessary for an attribution of Lizzie’s work to be made in the Bentley supplied by the Twysts, but she herself had remained in Gower, with her son, who’d been released from prison immediately following the apprehension of his sister the previous Saturday. By using Stephanie’s name, Annie had managed to speak to a high-ranking police officer while she and Carol had been speeding to Mountain Ash House, who’d told one of his juniors to hear her out. Luckily, the officer in question had been possessed of more than three functioning brain cells and a good deal of ambition, so he’d taken the information Annie had given him and had put it to good use. Lizzie Llewellyn had been picked up at a small B&B in St. David’s where she’d given a false name but still had the red hair she’d acquired before leaving Hay-on-Wye.
After the tour of Chellingworth Hall, as the group enjoyed a specially prepared American-style brunch, Jeremy Edgerton and his colleagues happily gave their unanimous decision that the miniatures the WISE women had been investigating were indeed by the hand of Lizzie Llewellyn and signed various documents attesting the same. A rough estimate of their value was suggested as running to at least dozens of thousands of pounds, so long as an exhibition and accompanying book were to be undertaken and produced. Both Val and Bryn Jenkins agreed, on the spot, that the eventual sale of the miniatures was what they wanted. The fact Lizzie Llewellyn was ‘no longer dead’ didn’t, in the opinion of Jeremy and his colleagues, diminish the potential value of the works. Indeed, he went so far as to suggest that the publicity her case was likely to garner might even edge prices upwards, rather than down.
Once the meeting disbanded, the attendees all went their separate ways to enjoy the festivities of the day.
As Althea and Henry left the stage, having officially opened the fete, the dowager spotted a gagg
le of residents from Mountain Ash House meandering toward the refreshment tent.
‘Come along, Henry, there are some people I’d like you to meet. Hang on a minute—’ she rummaged in her capacious handbag – ‘ah, there it is! I’d hoped I’d have the chance to wear it again.’
‘Good heavens, what are you doing, Mother? Are you actually going to put that thing on your head?’ Henry eyed the rather sorry-looking wig with horror.
‘Indeed I am – and you be a good boy and play along with me for a few minutes, alright?’
‘Mother, I don’t think …’ began the duke, but he scampered after his mother who was striding out, pulling the wig onto her head.
‘Yoo-hoo, Maisie,’ called Althea.
The group of women stopped and turned, several faces smiling in recognition.
‘Lovely to see you again, Gladys,’ said Maisie as the women met on a path. ‘Despite everything that’s been going on at Mountain Ash House – and I can tell you all about that when you have a minute or two … maybe over a cuppa in the tea tent – everyone’s been talking about the lovely job you did at the concert last week. We were all very sorry to see you go.’
Althea was especially gratified to spot the caustic Sylvia Trumbell in the group. Althea flashed the woman a coy smile and pulled off her wig, causing a stir of even greater confusion. ‘I’m sorry I had to deceive you all, just a little. You see, I was working undercover for an enquiries agency, so I had to play a part. I’m not Gladys Pugh, I’m Althea Twyst. This is my son Henry, the eighteenth duke.’
As consternation changed to recognition and general mirth, hugging ensued among the group as invitations for tea at the Dower House were extended. Althea even reached out and shook the dreadful Trumbell woman by the hand, pulling her close and whispering, ‘I was a classically trained dancer doing a bit of hoofing on the West End stage when I met the duke. He was the love of my life.’ The blush she saw color the woman’s cheeks was a very singular delight for Althea.
