The Case of the Missing Morris Dancer

by Cathy Ace

  A Victorian bedroom set of a matching headboard, chest of drawers and wardrobe allowed for almost no floor space in the room. Mavis noted the wardrobe held working clothes, some casual clothes and a few empty coat hangers. The more she saw, the more she was inclined to believe Aubrey Morris had not packed up and left of his own accord. She found a suitcase stuffed under the bed.

  Moving to the front bedroom, the first thing Mavis noticed upon opening the door was the smell of wood polish. Turning on the lights she was intrigued to discover that every surface in the room gleamed. Above the bed hung a cross-stitched homily where all the threads had faded to a uniform gunge, but the glass which covered the ancient fabric glinted in the light and had obviously been recently treated to a good old buffing.

  Picking up the old-fashioned dressing table set, Mavis noted with a slight shudder there were a few strands of long gray hair in the bristles of the bone-handled brush. Cranberry glass trinket-saver bowls held cheap rings and necklaces – Aubrey’s mother’s? – and in each drawer Mavis found lovingly laundered, pressed and folded clothes that must have belonged to his parents. Pulling open the wardrobe doors Mavis was pretty sure what she’d find there – and she did. Clearly Aubrey Morris hadn’t been anywhere near the dump or a charity shop since his parents had died – their clothes hung neatly, covered in plastic bags. The strong smell of mothballs caught in Mavis’s throat, and she felt rather sick. Poor wee boy, she thought, then reminded herself Aubrey was in his mid-twenties.

  Descending the stairs, Mavis weighed in her mind whether the respect Aubrey had shown for his late parents’ belongings suggested any sort of mental condition. Certainly it spoke of a young man who valued physical reminders of their presence, but she couldn’t convince herself what she had seen was unhealthy, as such.

  Entering the parlor to join Althea, Mavis was in for one last shock. Fully expecting a plethora of mahogany and antimacassars – and maybe even the odd aspidistra – what she found was Althea sitting on a tall metal stool in front of a blank computer screen, flicking through a book that looked as though it weighed a ton, and dressed in a toga. Mavis paused, unsure if the mothballs had caused her to hallucinate.

  ‘I found his man-cave,’ said Althea with delight.

  ‘I don’t think this is what people mean when they call something a “man-cave”, Althea. That’s what they call a room in America where a man puts all his sporting memorabilia and to which he escapes when he wants some time to himself.’

  Althea smiled. ‘Oh, I see. You mean it’s like a garden shed is for a man here?’

  Mavis nodded. She didn’t want to get sidetracked. ‘So what have we here? What a very interesting man our Aubrey Morris is. And where did you get that toga?’

  Althea pointed to a hat stand in the corner of the room that held another two items similar to the one she was wearing, but in different colors. ‘Maybe he had a different one for every day of the week. But at least we know now what he was interested in.’ She nodded at the walls which were covered with maps of Wales from Roman times, and of the entirety of the European continent, showing the extent and nature of the Roman Empire. Photographs of centurions’ crests, uniforms, Roman encampments and fortifications covered what space was left.

  Peering at the computer tower beneath the table which supported the computer screen Mavis said, ‘If we just turn this on we could maybe see what he was up to last time he used it, and maybe even find out if he had an online life. What do you think?’

  ‘It’ll be password protected, I suspect,’ said Althea, surprising Mavis.

  ‘For someone who wants to rein in technology as though it’s a thoroughbred in need of schooling, you sound incredibly tech-savvy all of a sudden, my dear.’

  Althea grinned like a naughty schoolgirl. ‘TV. Nothing to it really. It’s your Carol we could do with here. Any chance of getting her to join us?’

  Mavis nodded. ‘I’ll phone her right away. And I’ll let Annie know what we’ve found.’ She paused. ‘They might not believe me, of course, but I’ll do my best.’

  SIX

  When Carol’s car deposited her outside the Lamb and Flag, Annie knew she’d muffed her exit. She wanted to slip around the back of the pub with no fuss, because she guessed her mother might be looking out of the front window of her cottage just across the green; it would never do for Eustelle to see her daughter entering an establishment that sold intoxicating liquor before noon. Truth be told, she wasn’t very keen on the idea of Annie drinking anything stronger than Robinson’s Lemon Barley Water, which was one of the reasons Annie was struggling with the tiny little bit of glee she was feeling because she knew her mother was going back to London after the wedding.

  It had seemed like such a good idea for Eustelle to help her move into her little cottage. But it was a small space and they’d been tripping over each other for a few weeks. Enough was enough. Annie’d been out on her own since she was sixteen – having her beloved mother just feet away from her every moment of the day and night was beginning to drive her barmy.

  ‘Can I help?’ The man’s voice was deep, and the accent very Welsh.

  Annie jumped. ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Can I help?’ repeated the voice. ‘We’re not open yet, you know.’ The florid, thick-lipped man looked at his pocket watch. ‘Not for another hour.’

  ‘I know,’ said Annie abruptly. ‘I’m Annie Parker.’

  ‘I know,’ replied the man. ‘And I’m Tudor Evans. Landlord of this hostelry.’

  ‘I know who you are, I live across the green,’ snapped Annie.

  ‘But you frequent the Chellingworth Arms,’ added the man with a knowing grin.

  Annie sighed. ‘Alright, doll. We can go on showing off how clever we both are for another ten minutes if you like, but I’d rather sit down and have a proper natter, if it’s all the same to you.’

  Annie read the look on Tudor Evans’s face to be one of slight amusement. He scratched his nose and replied, ‘By all means, Miss Annie Parker. It is Miss, am I right?’

  Annie arched an eyebrow. ‘You know flamin’ well it is. Whole village knows. Black and a spinster. At fifty-four. I see the looks of pity.’

  Tudor Evans stepped back and gave Annie a long, appraising look. ‘I tell you what, if you want to feel sorry for yourself I’m not going to stop you. But if I were you, I’d sharpen up a bit and realize you’re a fine-looking woman with a lot of life ahead of you. If you want to live it with a look on your face like you just sucked a lemon, go ahead. No skin off my nose. But I suggest you take a leaf out of my book. No oil painting myself. Never have been. But that doesn’t mean I sit at home moping all the time. I throw myself into everything. I dare say there’s a lot of people round here who think I’m a real tartar, but I’m only doing what I think is right. You know – looking after the right way to do things. I might not have a wife or any kids to leave behind, but at least I can make sure people remember me because I was the one who taught them how to do things right.’

  ‘Tartar? Eustelle calls me dad that.’

  ‘Eustelle?’

  ‘Me mum.’

  ‘Why do you call her Eustelle?’

  ‘’Cause that’s her name.’ Annie looked puzzled.

  ‘But … oh, never mind. Back to the original question: what can I do for you?’

  ‘I work for the WISE Enquiries Agency. We recently set up shop in a lovely old barn out on the Chellingworth Estate. The dowager has talked us into making some enquiries about this Aubrey Morris’s disappearance. Given that you’re the one he’d made arrangements to pick up last night, I thought I’d come straight to the horse’s mouth.’ Annie wondered how Tudor Evans would react to her forthrightness.

  His broad features softened into a smile, and he slapped his corduroy-encased thigh. ‘Ah yes, the enquiry agents. Heard a lot about you lot we have. Come into the snug. Ladies are allowed there. I’ll get you a coffee.’

  Annie bristled as the landlord steered her into a part of the pub separated from
the main bar by wood and glass partitions. ‘Snug, me eye. Is it some sort of rule a woman can’t go into the normal bar? Can’t get away with that these days. We women have rights, you know.’

  Tudor’s expression was difficult for Annie to read when he replied, ‘I am fully aware women have rights, and, no, it’s not a rule. To be honest we don’t get many women in here at all. Tend to go to the Chellingworth Arms, like you do. I’m sure you know Sarah, the landlady there. Makes sure it’s all nice for the women, she does.’

  Annie sat at the slightly knocked-about table Tudor indicated. He fiddled about behind the bar with an antiquated coffee pot, and she took in her surroundings. ‘It’s not all lace doilies and pot pourri at the Arms,’ she said, ‘but Sarah has made the place look cheerful and welcoming. Who picked the carpet for you here? A blind man’s dog?’

  ‘Quite the one, aren’t you?’ quipped Tudor as he placed a mug of coffee in front of Annie. ‘I guessed milk and three sugars.’

  ‘Lucky guess. But seriously, couldn’t you have found something better than this?’ Annie indicated the eyeball-assaulting riot of color that comprised the worn carpet. At least it was a relief from the drab beige walls, the muddy brown wood of the furnishings and the bar itself where not even the brass foot rail was gleaming. The pub looked unloved. Smelled it too. It made Annie feel sad.

  ‘It was cheap,’ said Tudor, his already ruddy cheeks coloring even more.

  ‘You don’t say,’ mugged Annie. ‘Tell you what, you help me out with this case, and I’ll give you the benefit of my interior designer’s eyes. I could spruce this place up in no time. It might be called a snug, but it’s anything but.’

  ‘Anyone ever told you you’re a bit overwhelming?’

  Annie judged that Tudor was almost smiling as he settled in the chair beside her. ‘Nah. It’s never come up.’ She winked. ‘But enough banter, what about Aubrey? Reckon he’s done a bunk?’

  ‘Never let us down before, and he’s not the type,’ replied Tudor, his features settling into a thoughtful expression. ‘What I don’t get is why he’d tell me he was going to pick us up at the village hall, then not do it. If he planned to go off somewhere – though where or why I can’t imagine – why would he make those arrangements?’

  Annie sipped her surprisingly good coffee. ‘That’s the question, innit? If he’s taken himself off, why like this? Any thoughts?’

  Tudor leaned across the small circular table. ‘I’m pretty sure it won’t be a woman, I can tell you that. Quietest bloke I’ve ever known. Either working, or at church, or with the Morris, or at home with his books. He was a solid type. Liked a lot round here.’ Tudor paused. ‘Now why did I say he “was” a solid type and he was “liked”? That’s a bit weird, isn’t it?’

  Annie shrugged. ‘If we were in a gumshoe novel it would mean that your guilty conscience was telling me you’d done him in. You know, blunt object, shallow grave, the lot. But it’s probably just that you’re thinking of him in the past tense quite naturally. People do, you know. Without it meaning anything menacing.’

  ‘Well that’s comforting at least,’ mused Tudor. ‘To know you don’t think I’ve conked him one. Very comforting. So, having established that I’m not a cold-blooded killer, what can I tell you that might help you with your enquiries?’

  Annie placed her mug on the stained oak table and considered Tudor’s large face. It reminded her of the English bulldog named Elsie Tanner owned by one of her neighbors in Wandsworth. Of course, that particular creature had been a bitch, named after the character in Coronation Street, and Tudor was very definitely the male of the species, but the likeness was notable, nonetheless. As she was thinking all this Annie took in the capable hands that held his mug, the worry lines that furrowed his brow and the glint in his eye as he watched her watching him.

  Snapping back to the case Annie said, ‘Reliability and bookishness aside, what do you know about Aubrey? Haunts? Likes? Obsessions? Hates?’

  Tudor smiled across his steaming mug. ‘Right to it then, no messing about? OK. Let’s see. Aubrey wasn’t one for gossip or chatter. He was usually well informed about whatever activity was being undertaken and spoke intelligently about it – be that the Morris, or the church activities, or whatever. You know what I mean? Always focused on the matter at hand. Not one given to chatting about something off topic. Good like that, he was. Kept people moving in the right direction. Unlike some I could mention, who prefer to run off at the mouth about anything and everything and not give their concentration to what needs to be done. Worth his weight in gold, that boy.’

  ‘Hardly a boy. Mid-twenties, right?’

  Tudor nodded. ‘Yes, but you know what I mean. Compared with us, a boy.’

  Annie bristled. ‘Oi, careful now. Speak for yourself.’

  Tudor grinned. ‘I won’t see sixty again, and you’ve admitted to fifty-four, so we’re both old enough to be his parents, which means I reckon we’re allowed to call him a boy. But I know what you mean. Perspective. Boy to us. Man to himself.’

  ‘What about that; was he a man to himself? I understand he lived alone. Family all gone?’

  Tudor nodded. ‘All his family seemed to die pretty young. I’ve been in Anwen for over thirty years, so I knew of his gran and grandpa. Everyone called her Gran Morris. And I mean everyone. She was woven through the entire life of the village. Knew everyone. Ran everything. Then she died. Very sudden. Shocked everyone. His mam went the same way. Heart, when Aubrey was just a little kid. Terrible sad. His father was a different matter; strong as an ox he was. Got knocked down by a lorry in Builth Wells on market day and never made it to the hospital. Terrible. Aubrey was about … um … twenty then, I’d say. Yes, it was about five years ago.’

  ‘And Aubrey made – makes – his living as a handyman?’ Annie smiled as she corrected herself.

  Tudor nodded. ‘I don’t suppose he needed much income. But he worked hard. His prices were fair. Not cheap, fair. And good work always. Never quibbled if you needed something doing at a funny time. So long as it didn’t interfere with him going to church on Sunday, he’d do it when you wanted. Like I said, worth his weight in gold.’

  ‘Speaking of which, any family money? You know, is he secretly wealthy?’

  Tudor shook his head. ‘Aubrey? No, not him. There is money in the family, don’t get me wrong. He’s related to the Morisses out toward Hay-on-Wye. Lot of land, they’ve got. Even for around here it’s a lot. No title, like the Twysts, but lots of land. Word is that the grandfather was given the money to buy a house by his older brother when he inherited the land. Not a big house, relatively speaking, but out on its own with an acre or two. No more. Aubrey’s mam used to grow veg and his dad would do the odd jobs, though he did quite a bit of building work too. You know, barns and so forth. Pretty good with dry-stone walls he was too, as I recall. More or less a lost art that is now. Funnily enough, Aubrey said he was practicing to do it himself. Thought he could pick up quite a bit of work like that around these parts and up on the Brecon Beacons once he’d mastered it.’

  Annie felt Tudor was just about to wander into areas that weren’t of any use so interrupted with: ‘What about other interests? Might he have gone off somewhere to, I don’t know, see someone or do something connected with a hobby?’

  Again Tudor shook his head. ‘That’s it, you see, all I know of him is what he’s involved with here. His work. His church life. Playing for the Morris.’

  ‘Is he generally musical? Did he study somewhere? Might he have gone off to play somewhere else or to see a performance?’

  ‘His dad taught him. And even if he did have somewhere to go, why wouldn’t he have told me, or someone else? Why tell me he’d pick me up at the hall, then just not do it?’

  Silence.

  Tudor stood up. Annie could tell he was feeling frustrated. Just as she was about to speak, her telephone rang inside her handbag. She managed to find it before it stopped and answered the call.

  ‘Just a sec, M
ave. Tudor, it’s Mavis, she and Althea are out at Aubrey’s house, just give me a minute to catch up?’ she announced.

  Tudor paced patiently as Annie listened to all of Mavis’s news, and the information Carol had already passed to Mavis, then Tudor started waggling his arms at her. Annie wondered if he was having a fit.

  ‘Hang on a tick, Mave. What?’ snapped Annie.

  ‘Ask her if the Morris kit is there,’ replied Tudor, ‘and could she maybe bring it here when they leave? If it’s here, it’s safe. Then, if I can find a replacement musician, we’ll be alright for Saturday.’

  Annie was puzzled. She really had no idea what Tudor was talking about. She sighed. ‘Here – you talk to her.’ She handed him the phone.

  Tudor took it politely and adopted what Annie thought must be his posh telephone voice; it made her want to giggle.

  ‘Ah yes, hullo. Tudor Evens here. Landlord of the Lamb and Flag. I was just asking your lovely colleague if you might be able to bring the Morris kit with you from Aubrey’s house. I can take care of it here, at the pub. If that would be convenient.’

  Annie watched as Tudor listened then said, ‘A large brown leather suitcase, with brass fittings. It’s a little heavy, I’m afraid. Plus a tall, thin carrying case for our staff. It’s about six feet long, again, brown leather. A small wooden box with silver bells in it. Yes, a box full of bells.’ Another pause. ‘I’m not sure. In the house somewhere, I would think.’ A long pause. ‘Well, maybe you wouldn’t have noticed them if you weren’t looking for them?’ Annie sipped her coffee as she watched Tudor’s neck grow red. ‘If you would, yes. That would be most helpful. No, I don’t know where else to suggest. Thank you.’

  He handed the device back to Annie, his brow furrowed. ‘She wants you back again.’