A Shop in the High Street

by A Shop in the High Street (retail) (epub)

  “There is no house. I’ve been told that Grandfather left it to the housekeeper who looked after him all these years – when none of us bothered.”

  “But there’s money?”

  “Not enough to get excited about, and what money there is, will be shared with the maid.”

  The funeral was a small one. As the old man had explained, there was no one left who knew him well enough to care. William Jones, looking smart and well cared for came to represent his dead father, and he had persuaded two more sons of long-dead friends to go with him. Margaret was there with Islwyn, Edward was grateful to Megan for promising to accompany him.

  In the church, the dozen mourners spread themselves around the first three rows of pews but on the vicar’s recommendation, gathered closer together to add strength to their voices for the single hymn.

  During the brief sermon, the ancient door opened and a tall, slim, expensively dressed figure entered. Edward’s heart squeezed with disappointment as Terrence walked down the aisle and sat on the other side of Megan.

  * * *

  Margaret went straight home after the funeral and worked out their finances once more.

  “You’re right, Issy. The only way out of this mess is to sell. Grandfather’s money will just about pay enough of our debts to evade that summons.”

  “Then we should be grateful to him. At least we don’t have to face a court appearance and all the publicity that would bring.”

  “I wish I was still in Montague Court, Issy.”

  Islwyn looked at her thoughtfully. “Perhaps you could go back. I understand from Edward that Annie Grant is looking for an experienced housekeeper for the hotel.”

  “I couldn’t!”

  “Couldn’t you? Is there anyone more suited?”

  * * *

  Only the men went to the graveside. Megan went back to the old man’s house with the housekeeper and the maid, who had prepared a spread for the mourners. To Megan’s surprise and irritation, Terrence joined her there.

  “Aren’t you supposed to be at the cemetery?” she demanded.

  “I came to look around, see whether there’s a keepsake or two I can find.”

  “Oh no you don’t!” Megan called the housekeeper, a Miss Harriet Griffiths, and told her nothing was to be touched until Edward, who was the executor, had returned. Terrence poured himself a Scotch and sat on the chaise longue and smiled at her.

  “You are beautiful,” he said. “Why don’t you marry me?”

  As he entered, Edward heard her reply. “If we married, Terrence, you’d have to grow up fast.”

  “I don’t agree. Marriage to you might be fun, except of course, the complications of your baby.”

  “You’d never cope, Terrence.”

  “Because of Rosemary you mean? Oh, I’d leave all that to you until she was at least fifteen. But,” he mused, smiling at her, “Marriage does have its temptations, darling.”

  As the others walked into the house, each greeted by the maid, Edward said, “Thinking of getting married, are you Terrence? To which of your children’s mothers, might I ask?”

  “Don’t ask, Edward, the disappointment would be hard for you to bear.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Early in December, as Pendragon Island was waking up to the realisation that Christmas was fast approaching, Margaret visited the estate agent and arranged for the house, Waterside Restaurant, to be sold. There was defiance in her eyes as she answered the estate agent’s questions and even more defiance as she walked into Montague Court and asked to speak to Annie.

  “I understand you are looking for an expert housekeeper,” she said as Annie entered the room. Annie was dressed in a perfectly fitting brown skirt and white trilled blouse, with moderately high heels enhancing her well-shaped legs. Her figure was trim and she walked with quiet gracefulness. A long necklace of amber beads moved in rhythm with her strides, the matching earrings joining in the movement. Her jacket was gingery-brown which suited her colouring and gave her a look of confidence and dignity.

  Margaret lost some of her battle when Annie quietly asked, “And what makes you think you will suit, Miss Jenkins?”

  Margaret had expected the woman to show relief that her hotel would be in such capable hands. “As you well know, Mrs Grant, I owned the place and ran it from the time we opened its doors to the public,” she replied.

  “You don’t own it any more and if you’ll forgive me, you ran it until it failed.”

  “No, the truth was, I depended on my brother and he let me down.”

  “You were in no way to blame?”

  “No.” Margaret was emphatic.

  “Then you think you could come back and work here, accepting that I am in charge?” Annie’s brown eyes looked at her visitor thoughtfully. “I would have to insist on having the last word, and indeed, the first.” She stared at Margaret for a long moment and asked again. “Could you cope with that?”

  “I don’t have much choice.”

  “But I have,” Annie said. “I’ll think about it and I’ll call you when I’ve seen the other applicants.”

  Instead of going back to her restaurant, where the preparations for three parties of four awaited her, Margaret walked through the gardens of Montague Court, past the lake, and on to the bleak but beautiful pebbly beach. What was she thinking of, going back to her previous home as a housekeeper? Annie was right, she wouldn’t be able to cope with not being in charge.

  The Rose Tree Café was open and she looked in and saw Sian, Issy’s wife, serving teas to a group of ladies who had bags bulging with early Christmas shopping piled on a chair near them. Ordinary people with ordinary lives; for a moment she envied them. They were laughing as they unpacked their purchases to show their friends. Margaret realised with dismay that there had been very little laughter in her own life.

  Sian was sharing in their jollity as they demonstrated a toy or discussed a record, or joked about a tie. She seemed to be coping well with the near collapse of the family firm and the departure of her husband. Sian had had to settle for a lot less when the family business had got into difficulties, but her disaster wasn’t as devastating as losing a house like Montague Court, a house that had been in the family for generations. Sian had chosen to sell their home and move to a tiny terrace house. Her move hadn’t been forced on her by a stupid brother.

  Then she admitted to herself that Sian’s disaster had been caused in part by Issy. He had taken a good living from the family business, and had been negligent, lazy and uncaring. Besides not doing the job Old Man Arfon had paid him to do, he had stolen money. Then, when things went wrong and Weston’s Wallpaper and Paint was on the point of closure, he had left his wife and come to her. Sadly she faced the fact that neither she nor Islwyn were exemplary people.

  When she went back to Waterside, she was surprised to see that Islwyn had finishing the preparation of vegetables and fruit, and was cleaning the fish ready for the open-topped pie with creamed vegetables, which, served with duchess potatoes, was one of their more popular choices.

  “Thank you, Issy. I’m late.”

  “Did you see Annie?”

  “I did and I have to decide whether or not I can work with her as my boss in a house that was once mine.”

  “You don’t have to, there are other places to work. We can surely earn enough by doing less hectic things to pay for a flat and a comfortable life?”

  “I want to go back,” her voice was weak and Islwyn realised that Margaret was near to tears.

  “Then we will.”

  “She might not have me, I’m not the easiest person—”

  “You’re the only one for that position. Annie knows it. She’ll take you. And I hope she’ll find me something too. Ring her now.”

  “I’m to wait for her to ring me.”

  “Don’t wait. Kick down the fences and tell her how much you want the job.”

  “There isn’t time, it’s already six o’clock.”

  “There’s
time for this.” He picked up the phone, dialled the number and handed it to her.

  In her unusually emotional state she was more reasonable and she listened intently as Annie Grant explained her duties. When she replaced the phone she stared at Issy in disbelief.

  “I’ve got it. The job is mine and d’you know, Issy, I think I can cope; so long as you don’t leave me I can cope.”

  * * *

  In the small town the burglaries continued. The thief seemed to know when a place was empty, and where and if burglar alarms were set. At a house in Chestnut Road, not far from Barry’s former home, Bob and Greta Jones were avid collectors of medieval weaponry.

  On learning that the Joneses were out for the evening, Percy went in and began carrying the unwieldy treasures out through the garden to where he had parked the van. Pikes that were almost ten feet long were difficult to handle but he patiently carried them, wrapped them in sacks, and propped them over the passenger seat, along the length of the vehicle. There was a separate journey with some sixteenth-century rapiers, again long and awkward to handle. One had its matching dagger, which would have been held in the left hand of the swordsman, with his hand protected by his cloak. Beautifully decorated, he paused for a moment to admire the exquisite craftsmanship.

  There were several display cases holding arrow heads as well as some early guns, including a wheel-lock, the precursor to the flintlock. He carried these in a bag brought for the purpose, and was making his last journey when he was interrupted.

  The Joneses had gone to the New Theatre in Cardiff, but during the first act, Greta had become ill. She had a severe headache, felt hot, and her skin was burning up. Apologising to the patrons for disturbing them they left and drove home.

  Percy Flemming was still in the house, and as he failed to hear the low, expensive purr of the car pulling up outside the front door, he was trapped in the upstairs room where most of their treasures were kept.

  The windows were all securely locked and the only way out was via the back door which he had unlocked in readiness as soon as he had entered. He had come in via the pantry window set high above the ground outside and which had been considered too small to be a problem.

  Although he had entered by the window he couldn’t use it as an exit. Climbing up and coming in head first, he had fallen gently onto the work surface with his arms outstretehed to help his landing. But going out the same way he would fall several more feet and risk injury. Trying to get out feet first was impossible too. The lights were now on outside the building and although it was a quiet area there was the possibility that a pair of legs dangling through the window would cause some curiosity. No, he was trapped unless he could get past them and out through the front or back door.

  Bob Jones was escorting his wife up the wide staircase and Percy decided to wait until they were in a bedroom before running down the stairs and through the gardens. Unfortunately, Bob noticed a door left ajar.

  “Wait,” he hissed to his wife. “Someone’s been in here!”

  “Oh no. We haven’t been robbed, have we?” Greta whispered back, clinging to his arm.

  “Come on, let’s get you up to your bedroom. I’ll lock you in, then I’ll investigate. It’s probably nothing; we could have simply forgotten to close it.” Although, he thought, that was unlikely. They were fastidious in their routine, and shutting all the bedroom doors was a part of it, but “Anyone can make a mistake,” he told Greta, “and forget a small detail.”

  No longer believing there was anything wrong, he stepped back onto the landing and bumped straight into Percy Flemming.

  Masked and wearing a well-cut suit, chamois gloves and shiny black shoes, Percy was unrecognisable and he pushed Bob Jones into the bedroom where he fell heavily. Greta heard the noise and opened the door, stepping out to investigate. Percy grabbed her arms and spun her several times, then ran down the stairs calling back in a hissing whisper, “Run for it, Eddie!”

  Confused, Bob and Greta – whose aching head was forgotten – went from room to room expecting to confront the second man: All they found were empty display cases, the weaponry missing. On the floor, discarded in Percy’s haste lay arrow heads and coins still attached to their display boards.

  Belatedly, Bob ran out into the dark garden, shouted his frustration to the night air, and rang the police. He told them one of the two men involved was called Ed or Eddie or perhaps Edward.

  * * *

  Two days later another burglary was interrupted; this time Percy had engineered the break-in to coincide with the owner’s return. He didn’t intend to steal anything. He simply used the opportunity to confuse the police. The man who ‘disturbed’ him swore he had heard the thief calling for ‘Lew’ to bring the car.

  Tired of being questioned yet again about his movements, Edward went to see Lewis.

  “Why are we being suspected of these thefts?” Edward demanded. “I’ve never been involved in anything even slightly shady.”

  “Don’t look at me like that! I haven’t either!” Lewis pointed a finger in the direction of the back yard where Charlie and Gwyn were bathing the dog. “I’d put it down to being involved with him, the ex-con. But now I think we’re just being used. Only one person is ever seen, and the man is stupid enough to call out the name of the other one. D’you think that’s believable?”

  “No, and neither do the police. I agree with you. I think they have a suspicion about the real thief and are saying nothing in the hope of making him overconfident. He’s cheeky, you have to admit that.”

  “I’ll kill him for using my name! Causing all this aggravation,” Lewis spat out in indignation.

  “I wonder who he is? Smartly dressed, tall and neat, well spoken and as nimble as a monkey.”

  “That should let us out. You with a gammy leg and me almost fifty. We’re hardly to be described as nimble, are we?”

  * * *

  William Jones had settled happily into the house of Catrin Gwilym and every afternoon he walked around the area where he had previously searched for oddments of food to steal, and marvelled at his good fortune. With three hundred pounds in the bank and a comfortable home, he counted his blessing daily.

  He often called in to the shop to see Edward, sometimes fortunate enough to choose a quiet moment and share a pot of tea. A sudden surge of appreciation towards the man who had made such a difference to his life, led him to the sports shop one Saturday afternoon, where Edward and Mair were serving four brothers with football boots, jerseys and socks for their first match in the school team.

  Edward invited him to sit and he waited until the boys were satisfied and went out with their father, excitedly carrying bags and boxes filled with their treasures.

  “I just wanted you to know how I appreciate you finding me and helping me like you did. My life is wonderful now and it’s all down to you, Mr Jenkins,” William told him in the brief lull.

  “I’m pleased, really pleased,” Edward smiled. Old William never failed to thank him when they met. He wished he could make him believe that further thanks weren’t necessary.

  “Now if someone could solve my problem for me,” he said to change the subject, “I’d be content too. I’ve – just had the police here yet again. It’s these burglaries. They seem determined to prove that Lewis Lewis and I are responsible. Isn’t it crazy?”

  “Of course it’s crazy. I know who the thief is.”

  “You do?”

  “Until you saved me from my miserable life, I wandered around a lot at night. I saw him going into a derelict house one night and I watched. He came out dressed like a toff. I thought he was carrying on with another woman, you know how men seem to want a bit of excitement sometimes.”

  “And?” Edward was impatient.

  “Later, I saw him running out of a garden as if his pants were on fire, with a zipped bag banging against his legs,” the old man chuckled. “We weren’t far away from the main road and I saw him get into a tatty old van. I cut across the fields back to t
he derelict house and saw him coming out of there wearing his usual clothes, denim trousers and an old jacket. Percy Flemming it was. Saw him as clear as I’m seeing you now.”

  * * *

  Although Ernie Griffiths and his fiancée Helen Gunner had implied they had told Helen’s parents of the unplanned baby, in fact they hadn’t said a word.

  Ernie felt embarrassed as well as ashamed. It was always the woman who took most of the blame but he knew he could have held back and didn’t. Telling his family was the easiest, he’d known that and they had both hoped to gain confidence from the reaction of Janet and Hywel.

  As he was leaving the Gunner’s house a couple of weeks before Christmas, Ernie finally came out with it. Gloria screamed at the top of her voice. Wilfred tried to sooth her for a moment then told her to “Shut up!”

  “But what will people say? What about all the arrangements I’ve made?” Gloria wailed.

  “They’ll have heard worse things and the arrangements will have to be unmade,” Helen said calmly. “Come on, Mam, d’you think I don’t know why you and Dad never celebrate wedding anniversaries?”

  “What d’you mean?”

  “I mean that we haven’t committed a criminal offence. We just loved each other too much and too soon. Now, what about a Christmas wedding?”

  “A register office? Never!”

  “Pity, because it’s booked.”

  It was midnight when Ernie finally left, after being assured by Helen that she would go straight to bed and not allow her parents to harangue her any further that night. He walked home in a gloomy mood, wishing he and Helen had been brave enough to disappear and marry in Gretna Green as Jack Weston had done. He wondered idly whether it was too late.

  * * *