'What about the van?' Libby pipes up from the back seat. 'Will you have to stop working at the library?'
'Not sure, maybe. Although I have a cunning plan involving your grandmother,' I say, catching Libby's eye in the rear-view mirror.
'You didn't answer my question about Dorothy,' Hugh says, an irritation in his voice I haven't heard before.
I'm tempted not to respond as we are almost at our destination. 'We're not certain of anything right now, Hugh. It's possible the house we're planning to visit is where Dorothy lives. If we're right, there's a slim chance she'll be home and an even slimmer chance she'll open the door to us.'
He doesn't reply, instead he starts to cough. The coughing is raucous and persistent. He struggles to catch his breath and when he does breathe there is a loud rasping wheeze from his chest. As soon as I see a space on the roadside, I pull over. Libby immediately jumps out of the car, opens Hugh's passenger door and crouches down to his level. We look at Hugh's contorted face and exchange a glance with each other, sharing mutual concern and fear. An image flashes through my mind of me sitting in the police interview room, trying to explain to DS Bright why I was driving a poorly man around the streets of Tidehaven on a bitterly cold Sunday afternoon, and what I said or did that caused him to stop breathing and die.
But thankfully, it looks as though it won't come to that, at least not on this occasion, as gradually Hugh gets control of his breathing and the coughing settles down and then stops completely.
'We'd better take you home,' I say, looking at Libby, who nods in agreement.
'No,' Hugh says, firmly, 'I'll be fine, really. But could you switch the car heater off?'
Hugh was right. I'd been so intent on keeping him warm I hadn't realised how stuffy the car had become. It was only when Libby opened the door and the cold, fresh air flooded in, that Hugh was able to get control of his breathing.
'Well, if we do get to meet Dorothy, we'll have to hope she doesn't live in a hot house,' I say, lightly, trying to defuse the tension.
Five minutes later we are parked opposite 73 Faversham Road.
'Is that the house?' Hugh asks. 'I've waited a long time for this day.' His voice is heavy with emotion. It's as though he is about to be reunited with a lost love and yet everything he's told me about Dorothy suggests anger and regret are more appropriate emotions.
'You two wait here, or better still I'll find my own way home. I can get a taxi,' he says, turning to open the car door.
'Oh no, you don't,' I say. 'We haven't come this far together to leave you now. We'll go together or not at all.'
He grunts and shuffles in his seat. 'I need to do this on my own. The conversation I plan to have with Dorothy is private. I wanted you to find her for me and you have. I'm grateful for that and I'll pay you, as promised. But I'm asking you to go now. To be brutally honest, what Dorothy and I have to discuss is none of your business.'
'Sorry, Hugh,' I say, 'but you've made it my business.'
I turn to Libby and indicate to her to get out of the car. We walk around to Hugh's side of the car and I open the passenger door.
'Will you be joining us?' I say, pleased to be sounding in control of a situation that could easily spin off in an unpleasant direction at any point.
Hugh looks up at us, clearly disgruntled. After a few moments where we are all silent, he says, 'you haven't given me much choice. Let's get this over with.' He stretches his legs out of the car and stands.
'Are you feeling okay?' I ask him, aware that he is looking pale.
He shakes his head, but doesn't reply.
Taking the lead, I cross the road, Hugh follows me and Libby brings up the rear. Now that I am close to the house, the poor state of repair is even more obvious. The plant pots that stand either side of the front door are chipped and covered with mildew. A few brown leaves sit on top of the soil in one of the pots and the other is empty, apart from a few broken twigs. The paint on the door must once have been white, but now it is various shades of murky cream and dull yellow. The sea salt that blasts through from the seafront throughout the winter means that properties need repainting often, but this house isn't only suffering from the salt air. There is no door knocker, just a round buzzer, with a sign below it that reads, Press me. I glance at Libby before pressing it, her face reflecting the apprehension I am also feeling. There is no obvious noise from the buzzer, so I press it again. It is possible that the bell is ringing deep within the house somewhere, in which case my double pressing won't get us off to a good start with Dorothy.
After a few moments, during which I am holding my breath, I can hear footsteps. There is the noise of a chain being slid across and then the door opens a little, enough for a conversation, but not enough to allow me to see the person on the other side of the door.
'Yes, who is it?' a woman's voice says.
'Excuse us, but we are looking for Dorothy Elm,' I say.
'Wrong house,' she says and swiftly closes the door again.
'Great,' Libby says. 'Now what.'
Until this moment, Hugh has been standing below me on the second step of the small stone staircase leading up to the front door. Now, he moves forward, putting his hand on my shoulder, indicating to me to stand aside. I step backwards, leaving the top step free for him and watch as he presses the buzzer again, firmly.
Once more we hear the chain slide across and the door eases open a crack.
'If you don't leave, I'll call the police,' the woman says.
'That's fine with me, Dorothy,' Hugh says. 'You go right ahead. We have plenty to tell them, don't we?'
There is silence, both from inside the house and from the three people standing outside. For a few moments it's as though the whole world has frozen, as no cars pass by and the only sound is the call of a distant seagull. Then there is the sound of the chain again, and the door opens fully to reveal a woman about fifty years old, dressed in a patterned housecoat, tied tightly around her narrow waist. Over the top of the housecoat she is wearing a thick cardigan that has one or two holes near the neck, where a moth or two has had a feast. One of the sleeves of the cardigan is bulging with the edge of a handkerchief showing below the cuff. Her face is heavily lined, her thin mouth closed, a sour expression in her eyes.
'Hugh,' she says, a brittle emphasis on the single word.
'Yes,' he says, his voice thick with emotion.
'I'm Janie Juke and this is Libby Frobisher. We're friends of Hugh,' I say, offering my hand out to shake hers.
She stands with both hands in the pockets of her housecoat, leaving the three of us squashed into the area just inside the front door.
'We're sorry to intrude, it being a Sunday and everything, but can we come in?' Libby says.
'Friends, eh?' Dorothy says, sizing up Libby and me as if we were auditioning for a part in a play. 'Thought you'd need back up, did you, Hugh?'
Hugh appears to have lost the ability to speak or move.
'Mrs Elm, it might be easier if we weren't having this conversation in your hallway?' I say, putting my hand on Hugh's back to try to gently ease him forward.
'Who said we were going to have a conversation?' Dorothy says. 'And it's not Mrs Elm. Elm was my maiden name.'
'You've married?' Hugh says, finally appearing to have found his voice.
Dorothy doesn't respond, but turns away from us and starts to walk along the hallway to the back of the house. 'Now you're here, you might as well come in,' she says.
We follow her down the dark hallway and in through a doorway, which leads to a dining room. In the centre of the room is a large oval mahogany table, with six chairs positioned around its edges. The chairs are different shapes and sizes, none matching. Across the centre of the table is a narrow piece of lace and on the centre of the lace sits a glass fruit bowl, containing a single shrivelled apple.
Dorothy pulls out one of the chairs and sits down. Taking her lead Libby and I also sit down opposite her, leaving only Hugh still standing.
&nb
sp; 'I would have preferred to come alone,' Hugh says.
'Couldn't get rid of your young hangers-on, eh?' Dorothy says, a sneer on her face.
'Mrs Juke and her friend have been very kind to me,' Hugh says.
'I bet they have,' the sarcasm in Dorothy's voice is undisguised.
'You two must have a lot to discuss, why don't Libby and I make us all a drink? Would you mind us rummaging around in your kitchen, Mrs...?' I say, not knowing what to call her and certain that using a Christian name at this stage would not be well received.
'You can call me Dorothy. There's no milk, but if you don't mind your tea black, that's fine with me. The kitchen's down the hall, second on the right.'
Dorothy ushers us out, closing the door behind us.
Chapter 24
Libby and I hover in the hallway for a moment, keeping as still as possible, with our faces up against the closed door.
'Can you hear what they're saying?' she whispers.
I shake my head and taking her hand, I lead us both to the kitchen.
The size of Dorothy's kitchen would make any chefs envious. Floor and wall cupboards cover almost all available space, except for a large cooker and an even larger fridge. There is a small window above the sink, with net curtains that have seen better days. With little or no natural light coming in, the room is dim and uninviting. I imagine how different it could be with a bustling cook, beavering away making cakes and biscuits, warming the space and filling the whole house with wafts of cinnamon, vanilla and mixed spice. The thought of it makes my stomach rumble.
'Are we going to make a drink? Or shall we creep back and wait outside the door in case the conversation gets heated?' Libby says.
'See if you can find any coffee,' I say, opening some of the cupboards. 'Pots and pans, plates, glasses, but no food. I thought I was bad at managing a store cupboard, but Dorothy hits a whole other level.'
I open the fridge, which has an unopened jar of mustard, a part used tin of baked beans and a few mouldy carrots.
'She's right about the milk,' Libby says, peering into the fridge as I hold the door open. 'I'll put the kettle on and then I think we should take the opportunity to go exploring.'
'Exploring?'
'Yes, we should have a nose in some of the other rooms, while Dorothy and Hugh are occupied, so to speak. You never know what we might find.'
'You're worse than me.'
'I'm a journalist, remember.'
'Mm, okay. But don't touch anything, whatever you do.'
'Did you bring your camera?'
'Oh, crikey, I don't believe it. I've left it in my bag and my bag is in the dining room. Great, another photo opportunity missed.'
'Don't worry, use your powers of observation and memory. You take the room on the left, I'll go right and we'll meet back here in two minutes.'
'Two minutes?'
'Yes, that's how long the kettle will take to boil, by which time Dorothy will be expecting our return. We don't want her to come looking for us, do we?'
The room I go into appears to be a study of sorts. The walls are lined with bookshelves and in the centre of the room is an old-fashioned bureau, made of mahogany or similar, with a green leather blotter on top, providing a writing area. I open a few of the drawers, trying to be as quiet as possible. The drawers are empty, as are the bookshelves. But in one corner of the room is a stack of cardboard boxes, each taped closed with sticky tape and a large wooden tea chest, which appears to be full of documents and magazines.
Assuming my two minutes are up I return to the kitchen to find Libby already there, pouring the hot water into a couple of mugs.
'Anything?' I ask her.
'It's weird. There's a sitting room, but the armchairs and settee are covered in sheets, no pictures on the wall, not even a clock. It doesn't look like anyone plans on relaxing in there today. What about you? Find anything?'
'No, nothing. Her study is empty, bar a load of boxes. Nothing in the desk drawers, no ornaments, or photos.'
'You opened the drawers? I thought you said not to touch?'
'I didn't, I just opened the drawers. Look, let's take the drinks through and see if we can sus out what they've been talking about.'
I follow Libby through to the dining room and as we approach we hear Dorothy's voice, high pitched and piercing. 'No-one will ever believe you,' she shouts.
I don't wait for a reply, but push open the door to find Dorothy standing, her arms raised and a vicious expression on her face. Hugh is seated at the far end of the dining table, glaring at Dorothy as though he has been punched.
'Drinks, anyone?' Libby says, lightly.
They turn to look at us and I hesitate in the doorway, wondering who will make the next move.
'We are leaving,' Hugh says. 'I will be back, Dorothy. You can bank on that.'
'Do what you like, it won't make any difference now,' she says, walking around Libby and holding the door open.
Once the three of us are back in the car, I turn to Hugh and notice his hands are shaking.
'What happened between you two?'
'I don't want to talk about it. Just take me home, please.'
'Home? Back to your lodgings, you mean?'
He nods and turns away from me to gaze out of the window, but I have the feeling he is not seeing anything as we drive back to Tamarisk Bay in silence; our visit resulting in more questions than answers.
We drop Hugh back at his lodgings, with a warning glance for Rosetta. We watch him slowly climbing the stairs to his bedroom, his shoulders slumped forward and his head bent. For a man who is no stranger to great feats of bravery, today he looks as though he has lost not just one battle, but the entire war.
A welcome aroma greets me as I push open our front door.
'How did you know what I'd been dreaming of on the way home?' I say, walking through to the kitchen.
'Telepathy. All good partnerships have it, you know,' Greg says, taking my coat and scarf and gesturing to me to sit. 'One or two?'
'Need you ask? Two, of course.'
He slides a plate over to me with two hot crumpets, the butter still melting in a golden puddle in the centre of each one.
'I knew there was a reason I married you,' I say, planting a sticky kiss on his lips, after taking my first bite.
'How is my super sleuth of a wife? Did the plan work? Have you located the elusive Dorothy?'
'Let me finish these while they're hot and then I will tell you all. How about Alex, do we have non-dripping taps now?'
'Taps all present and correct, madam. We owe him some kind of thank you. I did buy him a pint, but he wouldn't take any money. Maybe we can ask him round for supper one night?'
'Does he have a girlfriend?'
'Not as far as I know. Why, you're not planning to matchmake, are you?'
'I don't think he's Libby's type and anyway, I have a feeling Libby's heart is presently set on someone else entirely, but Becca is due home from uni soon, isn't she?' I say, smiling. 'Tell you what, how about we ask Alex and Becca and your mum and dad at the same time. Then we can talk godparenting and see if your dad is happy to still give you a hand decorating with Bean's room. Didn't you say he'd offered?'
'Okay, sounds good. I'll talk to them. Now, come on, tell me what happened with Hugh, don't keep me on tenterhooks. I quite like the idea of my wife as an investigator, it's like having a ready-made television series to catch up with on a nightly basis.'
I push my empty plate aside and get out my notebook.
'Who would have thought it?' he says, interrupting.
'What?'
'Look at you, making lists, following a system.'
'What do you mean? I'm excellent at systems, that's why I'm such a great librarian,' I say, defensively.
'It's a shame you don't apply it to all aspects of our life, like shopping lists,' he says, grinning. He is teasing me about last week when I made a list, but went shopping without it and we had no butter for three days.
&nbs
p; 'Point taken.'
'So, we were right, it was Dorothy's house and Hugh persuaded her to let us in. Then, while the two of them were talking, well, more arguing than talking, Libby and I went exploring.'
'For exploring I should read being nosey?'
'Needs must. But what do you think of this? Dorothy's place was like no-one lived there. There was no food in the cupboards, no food in the fridge. Both the rooms we looked in had stuff packed away in boxes. Why would someone live like that?'
'They wouldn't.'
'So, what do you think it means?'
'That's the point, isn't it? They wouldn't live like that, unless they are planning not to live there anymore. Unless they are planning to move?'
Chapter 25
When the library van door opens the next morning the last person I expect to see entering is Dorothy. She strides in and presents herself at the counter, glaring directly at me. Her camel coloured coat has a grimy mark on the collar and one of the buttons is hanging by a thread. A brown woollen scarf is wrapped around her neck and she is wearing a brown beret, which makes me think of school uniform.
'How did he rope you in then?' she says.
'I'm sorry?'
'Your so-called friend, Hugh Furness.'
'Mrs ...' I hesitated.
'I go by the name of Mrs Madden, but like I said yesterday, you can call me Dorothy. I'm not like some, with their airs and graces.'
'Well, Dorothy, I'm not too sure what it is you think you know, but the relationship between Hugh and me is private.'
'I'll bet it is. Your husband knows about him, does he?'
'I don't like the tone of your voice, Dorothy. Perhaps you'd like to take a seat for a moment and we can start again. Maybe we could start with 'Good morning'?'
I pull out the spare chair from behind the counter and offer it to her.
'I'm happy standing. From the looks of that bump of yours it's you who needs to take the weight off. So, come on, tell me. Is he paying you?' Her expression is sneering, her voice acid.
'As I said, the relationship between Hugh and me is private.'
Lost Property: A shocking tale of wartime secrets and romance (A Janie Juke mystery Book 2) Page 16