The Old Bakehouse

by Daphne Neville

  “But how could he have put her body in the oven?” Hetty asked.

  Lottie’s shoulders slumped. “I don’t know and it’s not possible to put ourselves in their shoes because we don’t know who had access to the house and stuff like that. It’d help if Charlie could remember the day he bricked it up but sadly he can’t. Not at the moment anyway.”

  “I suppose someone could have broken into the Old Bakehouse while Joe was at work,” reasoned Debbie, “because we know he closed up the business when Eve left and if that was in the January then by February he could well have been working at Pentrillick House.”

  Hetty laughed. “Oh, Debbie that conjures up such a silly picture. Can you really imagine that someone would break in after carrying a body through the streets and then shove it in the back of the oven?”

  Lottie gasped. “Actually, I can. I mean, if the business was closed and it was common knowledge that the oven was to be bricked up, then someone might have seen it as the perfect hiding place especially if they knew about the boxes of memorabilia to be hidden because they would provide the perfect cover. And the body wouldn’t need to be carried; it could have been dropped off by a vehicle of some sort. It could even have been a delivery man with a van: the postman, milkman, butcher or someone like that. Lots of businesses did deliveries back in the fifties.”

  Debbie nodded. “Absolutely and the chances are that Charlie bricked it up while Joe was at work and so either Joe would have left a key somewhere for Charlie to get in or maybe even left the place unlocked. After all people were much more trusting back in the fifties: my mum often went out without locking up and thought nothing of it.”

  Hetty leaned back in her chair. “Hmm, I think you might be onto something there. So now we must regard anyone who we think might have had a motive as a definite suspect.”

  “Trouble is after sixty years they’ll most likely all be dead,” reasoned Lottie.

  Hetty nodded. “Yes, but it’ll still be a nice challenge for us to work out who did it and I’m sure the ever increasing number of Joe’s offspring would like to see his name cleared too.”

  During the winter months, Monday evening was pool night and the Crown and Anchor team played either at home or away. This Monday they were at home for a match against the Rose and Crown from Polquillick, a picturesque fishing village on the Lizard peninsula. Team captain Kyle was confident they would do well. They had a strong team and were pleased to welcome a new member, Zac, who had been eager to join ever since he had moved to the village. To make sure he was able to play consistently, Ashley the landlord agreed that Monday must always be one of the days when Zac didn’t work behind the bar.

  Pool night was always a good night at the Crown and Anchor when the team were home for they had a small following of youngsters; amongst them were newcomers, Vicki and Kate.

  “Why aren’t there any girls on the team?” Vicki asked as Kyle and the team practised before the arrival of their opponents.

  “Girls would be most welcome if they could play,” said Kyle, “but most umm…well…aren’t competitive enough.”

  “Which is Kyle’s diplomatic way of saying girls are rubbish,” laughed Zac.

  “Humph!” Vicki wanted to argue but she knew neither she nor Kate played well and neither did Zac’s girlfriend, Emma.

  “Practice makes perfect,” advised Luke Burleigh, “because I have to admit I wasn’t much cop when Nat and I first moved here but now I’m quite happy to take on anyone.”

  “What even Ronnie O’Sullivan?” Vicki teased.

  “He’s plays snooker, you muppet,” tutted Zac.

  Vicki scowled. “Same thing surely.”

  All the team members laughed.

  “How can we get to be better than them?” Vicki whispered behind her hand to Kate.

  “We can’t,” giggled Kate, “remember we tried our hand at the sports club in Kettering and when we played each other the match went on for ever.”

  “Hmm, you’re right, in which case we must try and find a female who can play well and then she can teach us.”

  On Tuesday evening Lottie, Hetty and Debbie went to play bingo in the village hall and afterwards they popped into the Crown and Anchor to catch up with the latest gossip. As Debbie waited at the bar to buy drinks she saw Geoff Barnes was all alone. “No Biddy tonight?”

  Geoff tutted. “Yes, she’s here and gone out for a fag.”

  “Oh, I see. I didn’t realise she smoked.”

  “She has smoked since she was fourteen and every year says she’ll give up but I doubt she ever will. I hoped the smoking ban, meaning she would have to go outside, might push her towards kicking the habit but it seems to have made very little difference.”

  Debbie ordered three glasses of wine. “You both have my sympathy, Geoff. I was a smoker too until I gave up in 2001. Gideon nagged me for years and he won in the end.”

  “Gideon?”

  “My husband.”

  “I see.”

  With drinks in hand, Debbie returned to Lottie and Hetty and as they chatted, a young man walked into the bar. Several local people greeted him; so saw Hetty who watched from the corner of her eye. Judging by the bonhomie she concluded that he must be from the area. However, never having seen him before she was curious to ascertain who he was and so mentioned it to Lottie and Debbie; both agreed they had never seen him before either. Hetty who was a stranger to patience, quickly drained her glass.

  “Drink up, ladies. I’m going up for refills so that I can ask Tess.”

  “But it’s my round now,” Lottie placed her empty glass on the table.

  “You go and ask then.”

  “What! Good heavens, no. I don’t want Tess to think I’m nosy.” Lottie quickly grabbed her handbag and from her purse pulled a twenty pound note. “You go for me, Het. She knows you’re nosy.”

  “Humph!” Hetty took the proffered money along with the three empty glasses and went to the bar.

  “Well?” Lottie asked when she returned.

  “His name is Ding Dong Bell.” Hetty carefully put down the three refills.

  Lottie rubbed her ears convinced she had heard wrong.

  “His name is what?” Debbie laughed.

  “Ding Dong Bell.” Hetty sat down, took Lottie’s change from her pocket and laid it on the table. “It’s not his real name of course. His real name is Douglas.”

  “So why did you say he was Ding Dong Bell?” Lottie picked up her change.

  “Because his name is Douglas Bell, well actually Douglas Daniel Bell and would you believe he likes ringing church bells?”

  Lottie and Debbie both looked nonplussed.

  “You’re pulling our legs,” Lottie frowned.

  “I’m not honestly. You go and ask Tess.”

  Eventually Hetty told Lottie and Debbie what she had learned. “Douglas has been known as Ding Dong ever since he’d started secondary school when some bright spark back then spotted D. D. Bell on his satchel. You can imagine that amusing school boys, can’t you? And the fact that he liked ringing bells was purely coincidental but now that he’s back in the village he’ll no doubt help with the bell ringing as he did before he went away.”

  “Where’s he been then?” Lottie asked.

  “Not sure but Tess said he’d been abroad for three years teaching young children along with missionary workers or something like that. He’s twenty four by the way in case you were wondering.”

  “So where’s he living now he’s back?” Debbie asked.

  “With his parents in Hawthorn Road. He’s a qualified teacher apparently and now he’s back he’ll be teaching at the village school but not until after the Christmas holidays when a Mr Brooks, who I’m told currently teaches the older children, retires.

  “Well, if he likes to ring the bells we’ll probably see him in church,” reasoned Lottie, “we could certainly do with a few fresh faces although there are more now than there were before Vicar Sam arrived in the parish.”

  Sho
rtly after a couple emerged from the dining room; Debbie nodded in their direction and whispered, “Ah, look over there, that’s the mother and son from Bodmin I was telling you about. The ones staying at Tuzzy-Muzzy.”

  “Hetty gasped. “Blimey I see what you mean, she is tall. Must nearly be a six footer. I wouldn’t want to pick a fight with her.”

  “Me neither,” chuckled Lottie, “What’s more, I can’t see any likeness there between the young chap she’s with and the pictures I’ve seen of Joe, so I reckon they’re here on a wild goose chase.”

  Debbie nodded. “I thought the same thing when I met them yesterday. Having said that he looks a bit like his mother so could still be one of Joe’s offspring.”

  When mother and son had drinks in hand they crossed to the table next to the ladies. As Jim sat, his jacket caught the buckle on Hetty’s handbag and knocked in onto the floor. “Oh, no, sorry guys,” He hastily picked the bag up.

  “No problem.” Hetty smiled sweetly, delighted to have reason to speak to the pair, “A little bird told me that you think you might be one of Joe’s offspring.”

  “How on earth do you know that?” He then noticed Debbie. “Ah, you’re the lady we saw yesterday morning.”

  Debbie nodded. “That’s right and these two ladies,” she pointed to Hetty and Lottie, “live next door to the guest house where you’re staying.”

  They each introduced themselves.

  “Cool,” Jim was keen to make friends, “Can I get you guys a drink?”

  “Not for me,” replied Hetty. Debbie and Lottie agreed with nods of their heads.

  “So have you had your DNA taken yet?” Debbie asked.

  “Yep, done this afternoon. Just waiting for the results now,” Jim downed half of his pint in one go.

  “They’ll be positive.” Pamela was emphatic.

  Jim nodded. “Yeah, so you keep saying, Mum.”

  “Would it be indelicate to ask why you think Joe is your father?” Hetty asked.

  Jim shrugged his shoulders. “You’d have to ask Mum that. I never knew the guy.”

  Pamela put down her glass. “I met Joe many years ago at a night club in Penzance. He told me he lived in Pentrillick and that made a bond between us because at the time I was working at the care home here. We went out for a couple of months and I really liked him but I never saw where he lived because when we went out it was in Penzance where I lived and so we always went back to my place.”

  “You worked in the care home here,” Lottie interrupted, “it must have been quite new then.”

  “Yes, it was built in 1965 and I worked there from day one but only for a few years.”

  Lottie tutted. “I see. Sorry I interrupted, Pamela, please continue.”

  “Well, one day when I was at work someone told me that Joe had a wife who had left him back in the late fifties and so strictly speaking he was still married. As far as I was concerned that was it so I ended the relationship the next time I saw him, simple as that. I mean, I was looking for a husband and a bit of security but he wasn’t free to marry so it was a no brainer. Seven months later Jim was born and by then I’d met someone else. We married, moved to Bodmin and Alan brought Jim up as though he was his own but Jim knew that Alan wasn’t his real dad from a very early age.” Pamela picked up her glass and took a large gulp of vodka and Coke, “Mind you, I’m none too happy to learn that Joe killed someone so in a way I wouldn’t be too upset if the DNA results are negative but I’m one hundred percent sure that won’t be the case.” She looked at her son, “Anyway, Jim’s more like me than Joe in temperament and in looks and I’m sure there’s not a bad streak in him. As for the money, I feel we’re entitled to a share as much as anyone else including the legitimate son I’ve heard about.” She laughed, “Alan, my late husband, used to call Jim, Lucky Jim, so let’s hope on this occasion he’s right.”

  “Late husband,” repeated Lottie.

  “Yes, sadly Alan passed away a year ago. He had a heart attack and died in the ambulance. Poor soul, I really miss him.”

  The next morning, Hetty and Lottie drove down to the Old Bakehouse with Sandra to be there for when the two carpet fitters arrived to carpet out the four bedrooms. While the two men set about their work, Hetty took a sheet of sand paper and a cushion out to the front of the house and began to rub down the paintwork on the old door. After an hour of excessive use of elbow grease its appearance was much improved.

  “What colour do you want it painted?” Hetty asked when Sandra handed her a mug of tea.

  Sandra shrugged her shoulders. “I don’t really mind but since you like the door you must choose.”

  “In which case it has to be white or maybe yellow. Oh yes, definitely yellow, daffodil yellow because it’s such a happy colour.”

  “Hmm, sounds good. I’ll get Bill to pick up a tin of paint then when he finishes work tomorrow.” Sandra forced a smile as she deviously planned that Bill would get a light cream shade rather than yellow accidently on purpose.

  “No need, we have a tin of yellow gloss paint in our garage left over from when I painted some flower pots and there’s more than enough left to do this. Meanwhile I’ll put some undercoat on because there’s still some left from when you and Lottie did the windows.” Hetty stood up and took a sip of tea. “It’ll look smashing when it’s done and be the talk of the village.”

  Sandra winced as she visualised the bright yellow paint and then a thought occurred to her. “You know, it’s only just struck me but this will be the very door that Geraldine Glover walked through back in February 1958 little knowing that she’d never see the light of day again.”

  Hetty shuddered. “That’s a very morbid thought but I doubt it’s the same door. This looks very nineteen sixties to me. In fact Joe probably had it changed a few years after he closed the shop.”

  “True but it’s still the same threshold,” Sandra stepped out onto the pavement and looked back at the house. “It’s such a shame that inanimate objects can’t talk, don’t you think? Because if they could what a tale they’d have to tell.”

  For a few minutes no traffic passed by and Hetty was able to imagine the shop in days-gone-by. With eyes closed she visualised ladies in elegant long dresses crossing the threshold to be greeted by Joe’s ancestors. She could almost smell the bread, hear the sound of horses trotting by and the laughter of children playing in the street. The spell was broken when Lottie popped her head round the door. “They’ve finished carpeting two of the bedrooms already. Come and see.”

  The following evening after dark, Douglas Bell walked down to the village to meet other bell ringers for a quick practice before choir members arrived for their weekly run through of the following Sunday’s hymns. As he walked beneath the lich gate and onto the gravel path he spotted a lone figure wearing dark coloured clothes and a baseball cap in the churchyard; the figure was crouched and appeared to be hiding behind an old crooked tombstone. It was not possible to identify said person because he was only just visible in the shadow of the street lamp and Douglas deemed it was unlikely he would know him anyway.

  Chuckling to himself he continued along the path and entered the church where he was greeted by old friends delighted to see him back.

  Chapter Twelve

  On Saturday evening, two more people turned up in search of their inheritance. It was Sid the plumber who got to meet them first; as he stood at the bar in the Crown and Anchor enjoying a pint one of the two latest arrivals spoke to him, “Do you know anything about the bloke who died recently and is now looking for his long lost sons and daughters?”

  Sid chuckled. “I don’t think Joe’s looking for anyone now he’s six feet under but if you mean the executors of his will then yes, I know a bit about it.”

  “Care to fill us in?”

  “Yes, of course, I’ll be glad to oblige,” he held out his hand, “I’m Sid by the way, and I’m a plumber.”

  “Oh, really now that’s interesting because we’re tradesmen too. General buil
ders in fact though stonework’s our speciality and we have our own business.”

  “Self-employed then. That’s the way forward.”

  “Yes, I’d hate to work for someone although we both did for a while when we started out and had to learn the ropes.”

  “So do you have names?”

  The taller of the two men laughed. “Yes, sorry. I’m Harry and this is my brother Larry. We’re twins, not that we look anything like each other.”

  Sid smiled. “Harry and Larry. Are they your real names?”

  “Yes, well we’re actually Henry and Laurence but as you no doubt know Harry and Larry are the common names of the aforesaid.” Larry took a sip of his beer.

  “Of course, so do you live locally?”

  “Not here in the village,” said Harry, “We live in Penzance with our respective partners. Got a yard there where we keep all our stuff.”

  “Shall we sit down?” Sid nodded towards a vacant table, “My back’s aching a bit tonight.”

  “Must be all the bending,” Larry acknowledged, “Plumbing’s renowned for it.”

  “Much like stonework,” groaned Harry.

  “You can say that again.” Sid picked up his glass and crossed the bar with the brothers to a table by the door.

  “So what do you want to know?” Sid asked as he pulled out a chair.

  “Not really sure,” admitted Larry, “but I suppose we’re wondering if there’s been much interest in the will and stuff like that.”

  “We’ve had a fair few descend on us but most were just hedging their bets I reckon because they’ve been and gone. One or two are definitely Joe’s offspring though and they’re still around.”

  “We thought it might raise a bit of interest especially getting TV coverage.” Larry glanced around the bar curious to know if any persons present were confirmed offspring of Joe. To get an answer, he asked Sid.

  “Not as far as I can see but they might be in later.” Sid returned his gaze to the brothers, “So what about you two? Do you think you might be sons of his as well then?”