The Loner

by Rachel Ennis

  ‘He’d have hated anyone seeing him like that.’

  ‘Don’t fret over it, bird. He’s past caring.’ He kissed her cheek then released her to lift bowls and plates from the dresser. ‘Remember old Frank Carne, do you? He had that great greenhouse along the lane by the stream. He was another one lived for his garden. His fruit and flowers won prizes at every show. But his house – I’d say he lived like a pig, but that wouldn’t be fair to pigs. If you went into Frank’s place you wiped your feet on the way out.’

  ‘Tom! That’s awful.’

  ‘Was, too. Poor old Frank. He just couldn’t get it together. He needed looking after.’

  ‘Oh did he? What would the lucky woman get out of it?’

  ‘A challenge? Maybe a few flowers, though I doubt it. Awful tight he was. He wouldn’t give you a cold. What was Preece’s place like?’

  Tom’s diversion had helped restore her balance. ‘Small. It looked like one up, one down, with a scullery on the back. I only saw the downstairs room. Everything looked worn and shabby. Maybe it was there when he moved in, or he furnished it from a charity shop. But it was tidy, none of the usual clutter you’d expect with a man living alone.’

  ‘Hey!’

  She raised her brows at him. ‘Your kitchen dresser?’

  He grinned. ‘It may look like a pile to you, but I know where everything is. Go on.’

  ‘The cottage had a big fireplace with an iron hook on a swivel. I think there was a cloam oven at one side. There was a log basket and fire irons. He had shelves of books, an armchair with an old tartan blanket thrown over it, a wooden chair tucked under an old-fashioned oak table, and a dresser.’

  ‘No TV?’

  ‘I didn’t see one. There was a wind-up radio on one of the shelves.’ Jess gave the soup a quick stir, then split and buttered rolls and filled them with slices of cheddar, tomato, and chutney. Taking tablemats and spoons from the dresser drawers, Tom paused by the table.

  ‘What shall I do with this?’ He indicated her laptop, notepad, and printed sheets.

  ‘Just push it out of the way.’

  ‘What are you working on?’

  ‘Research for Simon Opie who reopened the teashop opposite White’s the chemist in town.’ Seated at the table, Jess swallowed her second mouthful of steaming soup and felt the knots in her stomach begin to loosen.

  ‘How are you getting on?’ Tom bit into a filled roll. ‘I wouldn’t have expected the heir to the Chenhall estate to be running a café.’

  ‘Could be he needs an income. Getting out of the rat race is all very well, but you still have to live. In any case, the estate is only a fraction of what it used to be thanks to inheritance tax. How did you meet him?’

  ‘He came to the yard. He bought an old Falmouth working boat and wants to race it in the summer regattas. But it needs re-rigging first. We got talking like you do, and he said he’d found some posters and a board with Marigold’s painted on it and he’d asked you to find out who she was.’

  ‘I’ve never researched a property before. But it’s not that different from tracing a family tree. You start with what you know and work back. The property has always been part of the Chenhall estate.’

  ‘Has that made it easier?’

  ‘Yes and no.’

  ‘Right.’

  Jess shot him a look. ‘Though ownership didn’t change, the tenants did. I’ve been able to trace what the property was used for through trade directories and newspaper archives.’

  She pulled forward a sheet of paper. ‘From 2012 back to 1992 it was a vegetarian café called Beanz. From 1990 back to 1980 it was a burger bar until its licence to trade was withdrawn due to late night noise, litter, and environmental health problems. Before that it was a coffee bar decorated like an American diner and opened in 1956.’

  ‘How d’you know that?’

  ‘There was an article in the local paper with a detailed description. Booths with red imitation leather benches on each side of a table, chrome stools with red padded tops, a chrome foot rail in front of a long counter, and a jukebox.’ Jess spooned up the last of her soup.

  ‘Now it starts to get interesting. In 1951 a Marigold Mitchell was living in the property with her widowed mother, Sarah. I checked the BMD indexes –’

  ‘Births, Marriages and Deaths? See,’ he tapped his temple. ‘I do listen.’

  ‘I never doubted it. Anyway, I found a Sarah Mitchell of that address had died in 1952 aged 75. So I went back up to fifty-five years and looked in the Births Index for Marigold Mitchell. It’s not a common name so I knew there was a good chance I’d find her, and I did. She was born in 1900 to Sarah and Frederick Mitchell who lived at 3 Coke’s Backlet, an alley off Church Street. In the 1911 census, Sarah, Marigold, and Elizabeth Mitchell – Frederick’s widowed mother – were still at that address. Sarah’s occupation was dressmaker, but there was no entry for Frederick. So I went back to Deaths again, and discovered that he was killed in an accident at the docks when he fell from a painting cradle. What?’

  He stroked her cheek gently with his index finger. ‘You. Amaze me you do. You’ve found all that already. I wouldn’t know where to start.’

  ‘And I couldn’t rig a boat.’ Jess shrugged. ‘I surprise myself sometimes. If I hadn’t decided to trace my mother’s family, I wouldn’t be doing this now. I love it, and I learn something new every day.’ She picked up the empty bowls. ‘Coffee? Tea?’

  He groaned and pushed himself up from the table. ‘I wish I could. But with two boats to get onto their moorings I need to catch the tide. Doug’s working flat out, so while he has his dinner Chris has to deal with enquiries. He’s doing a good job and coming on a treat, but –’

  ‘He needs you there.’ She put down the dishes and hugged him. ‘Thanks, Tom.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘Coming to pick me up. Staying.’

  ‘The soup was ’andsome. And seeing you have set me up for the rest of the day. Feeling better now?’

  ‘Much. Go on. I’ll see you soon.’

  ‘That you will.’ Tilting her chin he kissed her, then kissed her again with lingering warmth.

  She slid free, laughing. ‘On your way, Peters.’

  ‘You’re some hard woman.’

  After doing the dishes and replenishing the fire she made herself a cup of tea, sat at the table, and drew her laptop forward. But her thoughts returned to the events of the morning. John Preece had been wearing pyjamas. That meant he had been about to go to bed, or he had just got up. The fact that his skin was so cold suggested the accident had happened last night.

  Why had the front door not been locked?

  She shook her head. There could be any number of reasons. He might have forgotten to refill his log basket and gone out to do that. He might have opened the door to throw out crumbs for the birds. Or he might simply have forgotten. Sometimes the simple answer was the right one.

  At two on Friday Jess had just sat down to resume work when there was a knock on the door.

  ‘Hello, Mor. No work today?’

  ‘I finished half past twelve. I won’t keep you more ’n a minute,’ Morwenna promised. ‘I’m going down to see Percy and wanted to catch you now in case you was going out later.’

  ‘Come in.’ Jess returned to the kitchen area. ‘Cup of tea?’

  ‘No, I won’t stop. If you just have a look and tell me if this letter is all right, I’ll leave you be.’ She thrust the envelope at Jess.

  ‘You know I will, but why me?’

  ‘If it wasn’t for you finding my father and all, I wouldn’t even know I had a half-sister. I’ve never had no call to write letters. After Granny and Grampy died there was only Mother and me. The only people I know are at work, in the choir, or here in the village. Five times I’ve wrote it. I tore up two pads of writing paper. But it got to be right. I don’t want her thinking I’m after anything.’

  ‘What do you want, Mor?’ Jess asked gently.

  Tucking a stray lock of
frizzy greying hair behind her ear, Morwenna shrugged. ‘Just … to find out if she might like to know me.’ Her shower-proof coat hung open revealing a navy cardigan buttoned over a cream blouse. ‘Just thinking about it make my heart bang like the big drum on Flora Day. I know I’m being daft. I mean, ’tisn’t like I’ll be any worse off if she say no.’

  ‘You’re allowed to be nervous.’ Jess unfolded the letter. ‘It’s not every day you discover relations you didn’t know you had. Have you shown Ben?’ She read it through, then read it again.

  Morwenna nodded. ‘He said it was a lovely job, dear of ’n. You don’t think he was just saying that?’

  ‘No, I don’t. He’s right, Mor.’ Jess refolded the sheet and slotted it carefully back into the envelope. ‘I couldn’t have worded it any better.’

  Morwenna’s downy face blushed dark rose. ‘Well! Made my day you have. I’ll drop it in the box on my way past.’ She went to the door.

  ‘Have you and Ben set a date?’

  ‘We was thinking early September. Weather is lovely then. I know it seem a bit soon, what with Mother not long gone –’

  ‘No it doesn’t, Mor.’

  ‘– but we both want Percy to come.’

  ‘How is he?’

  ‘Not good. That chesty cough have really taken it out of him. I’m wondering if I ought to ask him to move in with us after the wedding. ’Tis just – after taking care of mother all those years I was hoping Ben and me … but I don’t like to think of Percy on his own.’

  ‘Mor, he wouldn’t be on his own. You and Ben would be calling in every day or two. Percy’s got a lot of friends in the village. They’ll visit, and take him up to the pub for a pint, or to the over-sixties lunch. Besides, he’s lived in that cottage all his life. I don’t think he’d want to move.’

  ‘That’s what Ben said.’

  ‘Well, Percy’s his father so he should know. Ben’s looked after Percy just like you looked after your mother. The two of you deserve some time to yourselves.’

  Morwenna pressed a palm to her pink cheek. ‘I can’t hardly b’lieve it, Jess. Me getting married. Truth is I’d given up hope. Now I got some job keeping on top of it all, there’s that much to think about.’

  ‘Enjoy every moment, Mor. You’ve earned it.’

  Chapter Three

  Jess went into the shop just before midday on Saturday to pick up milk and other shopping for the weekend.

  ‘You could have come in and told me,’ Gill said coolly. ‘I had to hear about it from Maggie Collins. Her husband Mark works for Angwin’s funeral directors.’

  ‘I thought I recognised him,’ Jess said. ‘But they were there and gone so fast –’

  ‘Yes, but you weren’t.’ Gill folded her arms. ‘He said it was you that found the body.’

  Jess nodded. ‘You know what the weather was like last week. By Thursday I was going stir-crazy. I needed a walk so I took my spare tomato plants to give to Mr Preece. I thought he’d be in the garden like he always is, especially after all that rain. I called out three or four times. But he didn’t come and I couldn’t see him anywhere. Something didn’t feel right. So I climbed over the gate –’

  ‘You never!’ Her grudge forgotten, Gill leaned forward over the counter, her face close to the Perspex barrier.

  ‘I didn’t have any choice. There was a chain and padlock on it and no other way in. It’s a good job I did, or he might still be lying there.’ Jess’s skin tightened in a shiver.

  ‘That’s what comes of cutting yourself off from everyone,’ Gill said. ‘Mark wouldn’t say what happened. Was it a break in? He wasn’t attacked, was he?’

  ‘No, nothing like that. PC Davey made me wait outside while he looked round. When I asked what he was looking for, he said drugs or weapons. And no, he didn’t find any. His sergeant came, then the doctor and the coroner’s officer. They’re writing it up as an accident. The sole on Mr Preece’s slipper had come away from the upper. It looks like he tripped and cracked his head on the granite hearth when he fell. He was so cold, he must’ve been lying there all night.’ Jess cleared a sudden thickness from her throat. ‘It was an awful shock finding him like that. I felt so sorry for him, Gill. When PC Davey finally let me go all I could think about was getting home and having a cup of tea.’

  ‘I don’t blame you, bird. I wonder what’ll happen to the place now.’

  ‘Was he local? Did he have any family here?’

  Gill looked along the counter to where owner Gerry Eustice had just finished serving a customer. ‘Ger, do you know if John Preece had any family?’

  ‘He never said. But you’d need a crowbar to get more ’n two words out of ’n.’

  Gill nodded. ‘Even when I charged the key card for his electric he never spoke, just gave me the cash.’

  ‘We’ll miss his fruit and veg,’ Gerry added. ‘Lovely quality it was.’

  Gerry’s wife, Sandra, came over. ‘Who’s going to pay for his funeral? You read terrible stories in the paper about bodies being left in they fridge drawers for years because there’s no one to give the poor soul a decent send-off. If he ’aven’t got family –’

  ‘Hang on a minute, Sandra –’

  Jess bit back a smile at the panic on Gerry’s face.

  ‘No need to go off half-cock, Ger. I aren’t saying we do it all by ourselves. But what about a collection here in the shop?’

  ‘That’s a kind thought,’ Jess said.

  Gerry wasn’t convinced. ‘How will that work then?’

  Sandra fetched a large clean jar with a lid. ‘Gill, write a label saying “John Preece’s funeral.”’

  Using a black felt-tip Gill printed large letters. ‘No missing that.’

  Sandra stuck the label on the jar. Then she fetched an A4 lined pad from the shelf, flipped it open and wrote the same words at the top. She passed the pad to Gill.

  ‘You got a ruler. Draw a line down the page, about there.’ She pointed. ‘Put “Name” on one side and “Amount” on the other. When people see what others have given, they won’t want to look mean.’

  Jess laughed. ‘Good plan, Sandra.’ Taking the pad from Gill she wrote her name and address in block letters, then took a £10 note from her purse and put it in the jar.

  ‘No need for you to –’ Gill began.

  ‘Yes, there is. I found him.’

  Sandra set the jar on the counter with the pad in front of it and snapped her fingers at her husband. ‘C’mon, Ger. Open your wallet and let the moths out.’

  ‘Put me in the poor house, you will,’ he grumbled, but handed over a £10 note.

  Sandra whipped it from his fingers and pushed it into the jar while he wrote on the pad. ‘Right, that’s a start. Gill, don’t you let anyone out that door until they’ve put something in the jar.’

  ‘How do you expect me to stop them? I’m stuck back here.’

  ‘You’ll think of something.’ Sandra hurried away to serve a customer.

  ‘Hard as nails and a heart of gold.’ Gill’s face brightened. ‘I know who’ll find John Preece’s family.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘You, you daft maid.’

  After a light lunch, Jess washed up then sat down at her laptop and looked up the electoral register. John Preece wasn’t listed on it. This didn’t surprise her. Someone so determined to guard his solitude would have opted out.

  She listed what she did know. According to PC Davey’s enquiry he wasn’t registered with the local surgery, and the cottage contained no paperwork. He didn’t have a car or a TV set. He drew his water from a well outside the back door. He had a key card for electricity and charged it once a month paying cash.

  Jess rang the number PC Davey had given her. He wouldn’t be on duty until 2 p.m. on Monday afternoon.

  The following morning Jess phoned Fred Honey, the builder who had renovated her cottage.

  ‘Sorry to bother you on a Sunday, Fred.’

  ‘That’s all right, my bird. What’s on?’

&
nbsp; ‘I’ve got a damp patch at the top of the front wall in my bedroom above the window. I think it was that heavy rain last week. It was hammering on the window.’

  ‘Prob’ly blew up under the eaves. I’m in the middle of a job so I can’t come meself. Any case, you want a roofer. Colin Terrell isn’t cheap but he do a good job. And he’s local. He lives up Roseveare Meadow. You’ll prob’ly catch him now if you want to give ’n a bell. His wife been awful bad with that there flu virus been going round. ’Ang on a minute, I got his number in me book.’

  Jess wrote it down. ‘Thanks, Fred.’

  ‘That’s all right, my ‘andsome. All right are you? It must’ve been some nasty shock finding John Preece like that.’

  Of course he would have heard. It would have been all round the village within hours. ‘It was, Fred.’

  ‘Be some awful shame if his garden is left to go. Mavis said you’re going to find his family.’

  That would have come from Gill. ‘I’ll do my best.’

  Colin Terrell didn’t mind her phoning on a Sunday. ‘Best time to catch me. If I aren’t out for a run, or fishing, I do my paperwork Sundays. I can come Tuesday morning if you want. I had a job booked in but Mr was took bad with a heart attack so they put it back till August.’

  ‘Tuesday would be great.’

  ‘8.30 all right?’

  ‘Fine. Thanks so much.’

  Relieved that she wouldn’t have to wait weeks with the risk of the damage getting worse, Jess spent the rest of Sunday catching up with housework. On Monday morning, while the washing machine quietly churned, she baked a lemon drizzle cake and a tray of mixed fruit flapjacks. Having brought up two permanently hungry sons, and with vivid memories of labouring for Fred during the cottage’s renovation, she knew how much tradesmen appreciated cake to accompany regular cups of tea.

  Colin Terrell arrived promptly on Tuesday morning wearing clean blue overalls. His dark hair was cropped short, showing a silver stud with a tiny cross in one earlobe.

  ‘Morning, Jess.’ His smile revealed very white teeth. The familiarity surprised her. She didn’t like people she didn’t know using her first name. But saying anything would give it importance it didn’t deserve. And he was doing her a favour by turning up so quickly. Before she could respond he went on, ‘Fred rang to say he’d given you my name and I better make sure I done a good job. Think the world of you, he do.’