The Case of the Missing Morris Dancer

by Cathy Ace

  Christine nodded. ‘Yes. It was something and nothing, really, though it was strange to have a purple face for a few days. I’ve kept the clothes he damaged as evidence, and I know Carol was able to find out how much they’d cost to replace, right, Carol?’

  Carol nodded. ‘It’s all in the invoice you’ll be delivering to them. Itemized. Though I must say I can’t imagine how you can walk into a shop and be happy to pay that much for a sweater.’

  ‘Harvey Nichols has such nice things,’ mused Christine. The three other women shared a round-eyed look that spoke volumes.

  ‘I’ve been volunteered by Althea to help with the flower arranging at the church on Thursday,’ said Mavis, ‘and I know it’ll be all hands on deck up at the hall on Friday, so, until then, I’m proposing I visit Builth Wells again, and Hay-on-Wye, just to make sure we’ve spoken personally to as many people as we can about what services we offer. There’s one particular firm of solicitors I want to make sure I see. If we don’t have a case to work on, then I can at least try to find us work for the future. By the way, Carol, did you have any luck getting me an appointment with someone at the local Department of Social Security office? That’s always a possible source of casework.’

  Carol shook her head, ‘I’ll try again,’ she said, then they all waited while Mavis answered her vibrating mobile phone.

  As Mavis listened, she got up and walked around the perimeter of the cavernous barn. Peering out of the windows as she made reassuring noises and asked curt questions, her colleagues assumed a personal call, and they chatted quietly over their coffee. Carol declined fruit, Christine poured more coffee and checked her email, Annie kicked off her shoes, peeled off her socks and allowed her toes to wriggle through the sheepskin rug beneath her feet.

  Returning to the sofa Mavis said, ‘Ladies, here’s something we need to discuss. It appears the man who plays the music for the Morris dancers who are due to lead the procession of the newlyweds and all the guests from the church to Chellingworth Hall on Saturday has disappeared. No one can reach him by telephone, and everyone seems convinced it is most out of character for him to leave without word at such a time. Althea is quite upset. I understand there is some connection between the future fertility of the marriage and the Morris dancers – though I suspect that is symbolic, rather than anything of a practical nature.’ She winked. ‘Now this is the thing: Althea wonders if we could look into this matter, and I know we could. We certainly have the skills and the time to be able to do so. But this is the first instance of the Twysts almost expecting us to be able to work for them as a first priority, no matter what other work we have on our plates. It is a situation I was not looking forward to facing. We are all benefitting from their generosity – maybe myself more than all of you, because I reside at the Dower House with Althea. I have a great deal of respect and affection for her – she might be almost old enough to be my mother, but she has a youthful spirit, and a wonderfully wicked sense of humor. We have each, as I think you all know, found a great friend in the other. That was she on the telephone. I have told her we will make enquiries, but only on the understanding that we will charge our regular fees.’

  The ladies all looked around at each other for their communal agreement. ‘I think we all agree,’ Christine confirmed. ‘Henry and Stephanie are due to be married on Saturday and I know that for both of them, especially Stephanie who’s being absolutely pulled from pillar to post making the arrangements for this wedding, the last thing they need is to have to deal with a key person going AWOL. Mavis, you’re right to say we’ll need to be paid, but maybe we can recognize that you three were all at a bit of a loose end anyway?’

  Mavis raised an eyebrow. ‘The cost of the enquiry will be what it will be. This is what we know so far, and this is what I propose we do. Are you all listening, and ready to take notes, ladies?’ They all nodded. ‘Very well. Last evening two representatives of the Anwen Morris, which is what the troupe of dancers is called, were due to be collected from the market hall by Aubrey Morris, the young man who is the musician for the troupe. He did not fulfil his obligation, so his fellow dancers walked to Chellingworth Hall where they had their planned meeting with Henry, Althea and Stephanie. Subsequent efforts to reach Aubrey Morris by both mobile telephone and the landline in his home have failed. Upon checking this morning it has been discovered that his house is locked up, with no signs of anything untoward, and his van is not in its garage. Some casual enquiries suggest no one knew of Aubrey having any plans to leave, indeed, Tudor Evans, the landlord of the Lamb and Flag pub, and the man who leads the Anwen Morris, had spoken with Aubrey on Sunday after church and they had made arrangements for that evening. Althea has known the boy’s family for many years, and believes he is both reliable and fully aware of how critical his role will be to the successful performance of the Morris dancers at the wedding.’

  ‘Has anyone called the cops?’ asked Annie with a wicked grin.

  Mavis continued with a glare, ‘Henry has already spoken with the local police who have told him that, as far as they are concerned, Aubrey Morris has simply “gone away” rather than “gone missing”. And that might well be the case. He lives alone at his house on the road that leads from the village to Hay-on-Wye, and does not have, as far as anyone knows, any very close friends. I believe we can do a few things: Althea has much more knowledge of the young man than I can get out of her in a quick phone call – I propose I return to the Dower House and speak to her further there; Annie – I think you should go to the Lamb and Flag and use your ability to winkle gossip out of a mute to find out all you can about Aubrey from Tudor Evans; Carol – I understand Aubrey is a handyman hereabouts, and is known in the village as “Morris the Van”. At this stage I propose you put off the accounts for a day and present yourself at the market hall for an early rotation on the Welsh cake-making squad. You can enquire there about what is known of Aubrey by those who use his handyman services. Christine – you should, of course, go to London for your nanny’s memorial gathering. What do you think, ladies? Is this how the women of the WISE Enquiries Agency should proceed?’

  Silence.

  Annie held up her hand. ‘So you want me to go to the pub. At ten in the morning?’

  ‘It’s a professional visit,’ replied Mavis.

  Annie grinned. ‘Fine by me.’

  Carol half-raised her hand. ‘Aubrey Morris doesn’t have what could be called a large digital footprint. I’ve had a quick look and I’ll forward you all the details of his website. Usefully it has a photograph of the possibly missing man. I can’t find an obvious social network profile for him, though I’ll dig a little deeper before I leave here for the market hall. If I find anything, I’ll send that through to all your mobile devices – even you, Christine, because you should be kept in the loop.’

  ‘You’re so quick with that stuff, Car,’ observed Annie. Carol glowed with pride.

  ‘You can load the dishwasher before you leave, Christine, and I propose that Carol drives Annie back to the village – it’ll be quicker, even if Annie waits for Carol to finish her searches. I, in the meantime, will do my best to stop Althea from getting excited at the thought of hunting for “clues” then making wild guesses about what they might mean. She’s a surprisingly good natural enquirer, but she doesn’t seem to understand we are professional agents with a code of conduct to uphold, and we don’t hunt for clues but seek out information and evidence. And that from more than one source, where possible.’

  ‘You can’t ignore instincts,’ said Annie defensively. ‘I’ve got a nose for this job, and you know it.’

  Carol giggled. ‘Nosey Parker it is …’

  ‘Oi!’ replied Annie.

  ‘Aye, on with the job, Carol,’ snapped Mavis, ‘and I don’t disagree that we all bring our life experience to bear upon cases, as well as the skills and knowledge we’ve acquired through taking training courses, but I would remind you, Annie, that most of the people you seem to read about in those books of your
s wouldn’t only, in all likelihood, have lost their licences but they’d also possibly find themselves in prison. So, let’s remember we are professionals and work the case in an organized manner, taking things step by step. We all know that works best for our team.’

  Annie took her telling off like a trooper and smiled cheerily.

  ‘So come along,’ continued Mavis, ‘let’s check we all have our communication devices, and get going. The sooner we start, the sooner we’ll have this sorted. I suspect it’s nothing at all, and that the poor man’s broken down in his van somewhere and hadn’t recharged his telephone’s battery. But let’s get to it.’

  THREE

  Alexander Bright stood in the middle of his exclusive Shad Thames penthouse apartment and looked out at Tower Bridge. It was almost 10 a.m. but it was still dusk. Pendulous clouds hung above the viscous river promising that drizzle would soon turn to rain. He mused that the weather reflected his own mood almost exactly; something that might turn out to be quite unpleasant was on the horizon, and unavoidable.

  Since the moment he’d met Christine, he’d known this day would come. The day when he’d have to stand before the father of the woman he loved and convince him he was worthy of his daughter. Of course, asking the viscount’s permission for his daughter’s hand in marriage was a long way off – and he suspected Christine would baulk at such an idea in any case. The Honorable Christine Wilson-Smythe had taken all the advantages a title and a good education could offer, had worked hard to become one of the star underwriters at Lloyd’s of London and had then walked away, certain the goals to which her City colleagues aspired were not, for her at least, a worthwhile measure of success. As such, Alexander suspected, she was unlikely to believe that her hand was her father’s to give.

  Christine’s invitation to accompany her to the memorial gathering designed to commemorate the life of her late nanny had come as a surprise to Alexander – and he wasn’t a man to be taken aback on many occasions; since his earliest days as no more than a street urchin with an alcoholic mother and absent father in the sinkhole that Brixton had been in the 1980s, he’d been developing his skills as an observer. Little got past him. He’d dragged himself, quite literally, out of the gutter by using those abilities – judging people, discerning their strengths and weaknesses, understanding who knew what, and whom, and what was going on where, and when. It was a skill set that was now completely natural to him. He’d used these talents, and a large stash of cash he’d acquired by being an almost mythical courier to the underworld in South London as a teenager, to build a considerable empire of residential property which he owned, renovated and rented to deserving families. The chance for a home where a family could feel safe was all some people needed to avoid resorting to the sort of life he’d led.

  Having established himself in this field, which produced an extremely healthy cash flow, he’d invested in an historic, but ailing, antiques firm, which allowed him to indulge his love of the finer things in life – like art and artefacts.

  Alexander had done his best to clear his diary for the day; he wanted to be able to consider the evening that lay before him, and have time to research the people he’d be meeting. Christine had mentioned quite a few names, and all were worth investigating. A couple of names he recognized – the others would, somehow, be connected to people he’d encountered within his wide, and carefully developed, social circles. Whenever possible he avoided entering situations where he might unexpectedly encounter figures from his past – or even his present. Hence the research.

  Knowing if there were potential allies in the room would help; he could ensure conversations turned toward topics which would highlight his charitable works, his support of the arts and his interests in various sporting endeavors. But he was well aware that his decision to upend the usual model of renting rundown dumps to low-income families had annoyed those for whom the status quo was a good earner; if any of those types had been invited because their income brackets had allowed for the retention of the late Nanny Mullins, he’d have to be on his guard. He consoled himself with the knowledge that his identity as head of Marion Rental Properties was not generally known, so he could hide behind his carefully guarded anonymity under such circumstances.

  Before beginning his investigations, Alexander walked to his bedroom and drew back the sleek doors to his wardrobe. He owned any number of immaculate, handmade suits, but he decided the most expensive he’d ever bought, which had a couple of years of service behind it, was the correct choice for the evening. A simple dark tie and a crisp white shirt, plus his handmade English shoes – not the Italian ones because he didn’t want to suggest being flash, or nouveau riche – would be the ideal armor for his encounter that evening. He wanted the viscount to feel comfortable in his company, but not for Christine to feel he was wearing some sort of costume for a Royal Command Performance. Though that was exactly what he was doing, of course.

  Christine’s call came through around eleven, by which time his research was progressing smoothly. Neither of them spoke of the evening that lay before them, instead they chattered happily about running down to Brighton in his Aston the next day, and agreeing where they’d eat fish and chips when they got there.

  After the conversation, Alexander was restless. His life had been so strange – his current being designed to be acceptable within polite society, yet his youthful years bleak and dark – that he wondered if this might be the day when it all came crashing down about him. He’d never been in love before. Indeed, he’d always suspected that love was a weakness. It had been for his mother; he now understood that her alcoholism had most likely been fueled by his father deserting her. What if Christine’s father pried them apart? Would he try? Could he possibly succeed, if Christine wanted to be with Alexander?

  Sitting at his desk, Alexander squared his broad shoulders, closed his laptop and stared out at the rainclouds that were now causing tourists to scuttle along the Embankment beneath inadequate umbrellas. Heavy drops hit his windows and rolled like tears in rivulets until they disappeared beneath his sightline.

  He only had a few hours to follow up on one more task. It was an unsavory one involving the need to arrange the removal of two families from his properties. They’d been causing concern in a street where he was trying to establish a safe living zone for single-parent households, and he couldn’t allow their in-fighting to threaten the hard-earned tranquility the rest of the residents there prized so highly. The troublemakers had been given ample opportunities to change their ways, but it had become clear to Alexander they were not going to toe the line. So action was called for. He hated seeing anyone lose their home, but there came a time when difficult decisions had to be made, and then significant actions put into play. It had taken Alexander some years to get together a good team of people who were capable of extracting troublesome tenants in such a way that they were left in no doubt they were gone for good, and that no acts of retribution against people or property would be accepted. He wondered how much he’d have to invest to bring the properties back up to snuff after the evictions – if the last couple of incidents were anything to go by, these people might well have inflicted some pretty significant damage on the houses they’d been renting. It was an unpleasant trend he was beginning to worry was on the increase. Still, as long as they took out their frustrations on bathroom basins and kitchen fittings, at least the people living in the adjoining properties were safe. But it worried him that he was seeing so much more anger being displayed by people for whom he’d only ever had the best interests in his heart. All he could do was give folks a chance – they had to choose to take it, or else.

  FOUR

  Carol tried not to giggle when Annie got tangled up in her seatbelt as she wrangled her way out of the car and onto the grassy verge beside the Lamb and Flag pub. She knew Annie couldn’t help her natural flair for clumsiness, and they often had a good laugh about it. This time, Carol could sense Annie’s frustration, so let it pass.

  ‘
I’m going to drop the car back at the house, say hello to my lovely husband, then go to the market hall, Annie. If you want a lift back to the office later, just phone my mobile and let me know, alright?’ Carol called just before Annie slammed the door.

  ‘Right-o, doll,’ was all she caught from her disappearing friend.

  As Carol swung the car around the village green toward the house where she, David and their cat Bunty now lived, she still wondered if she should pinch herself. A few months ago, this would have all been a dream. Now it was her reality. Pulling alongside the house, she used the kitchen entrance – they hardly ever used the front door that faced the green.

  ‘Only me,’ she called as she shut the kitchen door behind her. Bunty, Carol’s beloved calico cat, gave up her prize spot on a chair next to the Aga and strolled over to Carol, allowing herself to be stroked. Her tail signaled her disdain, then she leaped onto the kitchen table and settled on a newspaper, licking a paw in a most luxurious manner.

  David’s head popped into the kitchen, followed by his comfortably rounded body.

  ‘You’re still in your dressing gown. Are you poorly?’ Carol almost panicked.

  David smiled slowly and rubbed his unbrushed light-brown hair. ‘I’m fine. Just haven’t got dressed yet. Got a bit caught up with a problem that needed a quick work-around at the satellite office in Zurich. All sorted now. You OK?’

  The couple automatically gravitated toward each other in the middle of the large, pleasantly old-fashioned kitchen, and hugged. David rubbed Bump. ‘How’s it doing?’

  ‘A bit active today,’ replied Carol smiling. ‘I’m not stopping. I need to be at the market hall, unexpectedly, so thought I’d park here, see how you were doing and then walk over. I didn’t think I’d catch you pre-shower. Just because you’re working from home nowadays, it doesn’t mean you can stay in your jim-jams all day. Bump will be running around the place before we know it. You’d better get used to having to be up and at ’em in the mornings.’