by Cathy Ace
‘So, awkward first introductions aside,’ began the viscount, ‘may I make a toast – to newly made acquaintances.’ Glasses were raised and champagne sipped.
‘And to Nanny Mullins,’ said Christine quietly. A more somber draught was taken by the foursome.
It was then time for the speeches and their attention was diverted for a good fifteen minutes as various ex-charges of Nanny Mullins gave their eulogies and thanks to her ‘inspirational’ and ‘firm’ nannying technique. It was when the fourth and final charge was at the bar that Christine became aware that her telephone was vibrating inside her handbag. She felt she should wait before she answered it, so she was glad when things wound up. A general hubbub following a vote of thanks allowed Christine the chance to check her phone.
‘Work?’ asked Alexander noticing her preoccupation. Christine nodded. ‘Urgent?’ he added. She nodded again. ‘Why don’t you phone them back? I’ll stay here with your parents. I’m sure we can amuse ourselves for five minutes.’
Christine looked at Alexander, then her parents. She wondered about the wisdom of leaving them to their own devices, but as soon as her father said to Alexander, ‘So Christine tells me you’re involved in property development …’ she decided she’d definitely just check her messages, rather than return calls.
A couple of moments later she felt happy to be able to interrupt what seemed to be a complex explanation of social housing planning in inner cities with a rather curious statement. ‘Daddy, I think you can help with a case we have.’
‘Really, dear?’ replied her father looking suspicious. ‘I find that most unlikely, but tell me, in what way do you think I might be of assistance?’
‘Morris dancing. You’re up on that, aren’t you?’ Christine was confident he was.
Surprisingly her father looked a bit squirrely. ‘In what way “up on it”, dear?’
‘You know a lot about it. I know you do, Daddy. You dragged me to see umpteen of the wretched displays when I was young. All over the place. Mad for it, you were.’
Her father smiled. ‘In my younger days maybe I was keen on it for a while. But not for quite some time now. It’s been rather taken over by a different type, these days. Haven’t seen a proper Morris for years. Just these tourist type things.’
Christine was genuinely puzzled. She’d always assumed her father had continued with what she’d always felt had been a rabid interest in Morris dancing.
‘Oh. Well maybe you can’t help then,’ she said, rather crestfallen. ‘It’s just that we have a case involving a missing Morris dancer back in Wales, and now it turns out that, while he might have left Anwen-by-Wye intentionally, he’s hopped it with what seems to be an ancient, storied and possibly valuable set of Morris dancing implements. I thought you might know what the chances would be of shifting said implements.’
Her father looked vague. ‘Sorry. Not a clue.’ He shrugged.
Smiling at Alexander, Christine said, ‘I don’t suppose you know someone who might be able to help?’ She knew the answer before she asked.
Alexander winked. ‘I know just the chap. Want me to give him a ring?’
Christine smiled warmly. ‘If you wouldn’t mind.’ Turning her attention to her parents Christine added, ‘Did I mention that Alexander owns Coggins and Sons, you know, the antiques place down near Chelsea Harbour? It means he has a great number of terribly useful contacts.’
‘Contacts who might know about missing Morris dancing kit?’ asked her father pointedly.
Tutting loudly, Christine said, ‘Daddy, come off it, not all antiques fall off the back of lorries. As a family with two enormous houses stuffed to the gills with ancient objects, we know only too well that many of them sit in dimly lit rooms for generations, unloved and unwanted, but having to be dusted and insured at regular intervals. One of Alexander’s business interests allows him to ensure such objects end up in the hands of those who value and love them, rather than seeing them as monstrosities that must be maintained. Isn’t that right, Alexander?’
Alexander smiled. ‘That’s an elegant way of putting it,’ he said calmly. ‘Now, if you’d like to pursue this matter this evening, might I suggest I make that call?’
Kisses and handshakes followed, and eventually Alexander helped Christine into her coat at the door, before the pair of them stepped into the chilly, damp night air.
‘Walk you to your car, ma’am? Then I’ll scurry back to my spot at the bar to serve the next lot what comes along?’ quipped Alexander in a mock-cockney accent.
‘Oh good gracious, my blessed parents! I’m so embarrassed. I’m sorry, Alexander, it was terribly rude of them to assume you were a waiter. I’ll never let them forget it.’
Alexander hugged her to his side. ‘Don’t worry, neither will I.’ He grinned. ‘Now, about the stuff that’s missing. Would that be the Anwen Morris artefacts you’re talking about? Because, if it is, I know exactly who we need to talk to, but we won’t be able to reach him easily on the phone. We’re more likely to catch him at a certain pub near the Globe Theatre. It’s his second home. What he doesn’t know about folkloric treasures you could write on a postage stamp.’ Alexander looked at his watch. ‘If we take my car it’ll be quicker. And we’ll end up not too far from my place, so we could eat there, if you like.’
‘Or maybe grab a bite at the pub?’ said Christine with a wink.
‘Probably not,’ said Alexander. ‘Not really that sort of pub. Though you know I can rustle up a mean bowl of pasta at no more than a moment’s notice.’
‘I do indeed,’ said Christine, sliding herself into Alexander’s Aston Martin for what she knew would be an enjoyable trip across London; Alexander was an excellent driver, and he managed the power of the vehicle with deftness. Buckled in, she sent a text to the girls back at the office to tell them what she and Alexander were doing – promising to report back to them all later on. Given that she’d abandoned them to run off to London for a couple of days, she was rather pleased she was now going to be able to contribute something to the case.
Half an hour later, Christine was standing outside a seedy pub in a street that hadn’t witnessed the passing of a street-cleaning gang in, possibly, a decade. Graffiti covered large, industrial wheelie-bins that stood in a forlorn row against one wall, and Alexander was deep in conversation with a small man who looked, to Christine, like a human version of a bird; his long, beaked nose moved up and down as he and Alexander talked. She wasn’t close enough to hear what was being said, which was irritating. She knew very well that the WISE agency would flourish if every staff member used every contact they had in the pursuit of information and evidence to help with their cases, and Alexander had some wonderful contacts. She just wished they didn’t all have to be met at the dead of night in dismal lanes.
Finally parting from the informant, Alexander rejoined her, a smile on his face.
‘So we definitely won’t be eating at the pub then?’ said Christine as she slipped her arm into Alexander’s and they headed for the car.
‘As I said, pasta at mine sounds good.’
‘Anything useful from that rather odd-looking little man?’
‘Wheels are in motion.’
‘Ah, as enigmatic, as ever.’
‘One of my fortes,’ said Alexander, opening the car door for Christine with a grin.
‘Which is both a good, and a bad, thing,’ said Christine, sliding in.
EIGHT
‘Alright, ladies, it’s almost seven o’clock, so I suggest we have a quick summary of the day, then abandon the office and head for our homes. Agreed?’ Carol and Annie both nodded in response to Mavis’s question. Mavis leaned forward in her armchair, while her colleagues remained splayed on the sofa. The office was dimly lit by a couple of standard lamps; it helped make the vast space seem more intimate. ‘Carol, could you record this for Christine, please? You can send it as an audio file. Thank you, dear.’
Carol popped her phone onto the coffee table. ‘Shoot,�
�� she said to Mavis, who nodded at Annie.
Annie leaned forward and spoke loudly. ‘I have established from my contact with Mr Tudor Evans that Aubrey Morris’s no-show last night is out of character, and that while he might own all the kit and caboodle he’s taken with him, the village sees it as rightly theirs, so Tudor’s more than a bit miffed. I got a good primer on the history of Morris dancing, but Mave tells me you’re all over that ’cause your dad’s into it, so I won’t waste your time. That’s me done.’
Carol added, ‘It’s clear from speaking to various women in the village who had jobs booked with him for next week that he meant to not be in attendance to carry out the planned work. He had made arrangements for some jobs to be done by other service providers, or had told certain customers that they should make alternative arrangements. I believe he planned to leave the village after Henry and Stephanie’s wedding. Maybe you should speak next, Mavis, then I’ll talk about the computing input.’
Mavis moved closer to the recorder. ‘I gained access to the subject’s home thanks to the fact that Althea – our honorary WISE woman – has a key to his front door. I noted the house was clean and tidy, the refrigerator had not been emptied of perishables, his wardrobe was full of clothes and the presence of an empty suitcase suggests to me Aubrey Morris did not pack up and leave home on a planned trip. His vehicle, a van, is not at his home. To confirm – the police have declined, once again, to get involved. When I spoke to them they pointed out that Aubrey might have clothes and luggage we know nothing about, and might even own more than one toothbrush. They believe Aubrey Morris has left his home and Anwen-by-Wye of his own choice. As to where he might have gone? Back to you, Carol.’
Carol cleared her throat and scooted forward on the sofa. ‘Mavis phoned me from the Morris home and asked that I join her there. She and Althea had found a computer which they felt might, if accessed, give us some idea of Aubrey Morris’s intentions. Having been unable to trace him online using any obvious names he might use, I thought it worthwhile for me to make the trip to his house. Upon my arrival I noted that Aubrey’s computer was a few years old, and not terribly sophisticated. I took a little time to work out how he’d set up his systems before I attempted to access anything at all.
Carol paused for a moment, then continued, ‘Now, I know you get impatient with me when I spout computer babble as you call it, so let’s just cut to the chase. The most interesting information I found was that the browser history told me Aubrey had been searching online auction sites, as well as sites that gave information on inexpensive hotels in Rome, Italy. The man’s house tells us he’s well-versed in the history of the Roman occupation of the British Isles, especially the area around Anwen-by-Wye, and he also seems to be besotted with Celtic and Druidic history in the area. He has been quite active in chat rooms and on blogs that deal with all these topics, as well as topics connected with Morris dancing and its history, but there doesn’t seem to be anything in what he’s written to suggest why he’d have left at this time. That, when taken with his searches, lead me to believe he’s been hunting around trying to find out more about the exact history of, or to be able to prove the historical significance of, the Morris dancing artefacts his family has owned for many generations. It might be possible he’s thinking of selling them. There’s no trace of the items on any online auction site I know of, though I will do more digging when I get back home tonight.’
‘We have no idea if he’s actually gone to Rome,’ added Mavis tartly. ‘No records of flights purchased on his computer.’
Carol added, ‘One more thing – although we thought he might be the type to have hooked up with someone online, I can’t find any trail of activity in dating sites or dating chat rooms, or anything like that. I hunted about for an hour or so, but no joy, and no frequently used email addresses either, so no electronic breadcrumbs to lead to a possible romantic interest.’
‘Thanks, Carol,’ concluded Mavis with a nod. Carol stopped recording.
Annie said, ‘It doesn’t sound like I did very much, but that’s probably because I had to spend all afternoon convincing Eustelle I was in the pub on business and not because I’m a raging alcoholic.’
As Carol made several efforts to extricate herself from the cloying embrace of the sofa she said, ‘Annie, you did what was needed. That’s what we do – we each do what’s needed for the team. But talking about Eustelle, it’s time we all got going. Bump will be glad to get home tonight. Give you a lift, girls?’
Mavis got her coat, Annie sent the audio file, then Carol warmed up the car while Mavis turned off all the lights and locked up behind them.
NINE
Tuesday, February 25th
Henry woke with a headache. He put it down to the final conversation he’d had the previous night with Edward about the need for extra staff on the day of the wedding. It had to be that, he told himself as he gazed into his bloodshot eyes in the bathroom mirror. It couldn’t be the brandy.
He’d agreed with Mrs Davies his cook he would take breakfast in his room for the rest of the week, which meant she wouldn’t have to set up to serve him in the breakfast room, a great saving of effort for her, he’d been assured, considering all her extra duties. He was happy to make the concession, and was pleasantly surprised to discover that eating creamily scrambled eggs on toast and sipping coffee at the window of his large bedroom was actually quite pleasant. It also meant he could extend the period before he had to face any of the occupying forces decamped in various parts of his home for an extra hour or so.
Eventually he had to succumb. Stephanie had telephoned his room to remind him about a meeting they had planned with the leader of the chamber orchestra that was due to play for their festivities. He was keenly aware that his fiancé had spent some considerable time convincing the students at the music department at the University of Cardiff it would be worth their while to perform at the celebrations for next to nothing, if only to be able to say they had taken part in such an historic event. He’d promised to be extremely hospitable to the conductor who was making all the arrangements and had agreed with Stephanie some alcoholic supplies were to be set aside for the musicians so they could enjoy themselves ‘properly’ when their services were no longer required. Libations aside, the Chellingworth Estate was also paying for the bus that would ferry them from, and back to, Cardiff on the day, as well as stumping up for the lorry required to deliver the harps.
Henry wondered if angels would need to be coaxed down from on high for the occasion too, but he decided it was best to keep that thought to himself as he watched Stephanie gush, cajole, smile, instruct, flatter and make promises to the young orchestral leader as though he were a juvenile Mozart, rather than the representative of a couple of dozen music students.
Henry watched with admiration as Stephanie talked about musical selections, running orders and timings. She was no beauty, in the classical sense, but he wasn’t an Adonis by any means either. They were a well-suited couple – everyone said so. And he thought it true. The age difference? He tended to agree with Stephanie that he was an eternal child, so his age really was just a number, and she’d soon catch him up. One thing he did spot was the fact she’d lost weight. His mother’s assurances that this was normal for any woman as she approached her wedding day aside, he wondered why he’d gone the other way – he’d gained a few pounds, if his waistcoat buttons were to be believed. He hoped his wedding suit would fit. He’d been measured back in January. He looked at his watch. He’d know in a few hours; his tailor was due to come to the hall for the final fitting of his morning suit.
Tuning back in to the conversation with the musician, Henry realized it was all over bar the farewells. He was relieved. Another bullet dodged. As the young chap with the greasy hair skedaddled, Stephanie crossed through the item on her list and said, ‘Right, I’m off to check on Marjorie Pritchard and the Young Wives’ Welsh cakes. Then I’ll make sure the daffodils will be delivered to the church first thing on Thursday, a
nd that we’re on for the choral rehearsal on Friday evening. When will my ring be delivered, dear? What time did you arrange?’
‘Pardon?’ Henry was confused.
‘The ring. The jeweler. You said you’d speak to him and make sure he came today, so we can check it fits me. What time is he coming?’
Henry panicked. ‘I’ll have to consult my notebook.’ He patted his pockets. ‘Left it upstairs. I’ll just pop and get it. Don’t need me for a little while, do you, dear?’
His fiancé smiled warmly, ‘No, my darling Henry, I can get along here. But maybe you could just check about the ring. It’s rather important, isn’t it?’
Henry kissed Stephanie’s cheek and took off at a canter. He cursed himself as he tried to get up the main staircase as surreptitiously as possible, which was difficult to do because the bannisters were being bedecked with trailing ivy at every turn.
Leaning his back against his closed bedroom door, Henry looked around in sheer terror. What had he done with the jeweler’s telephone number? What had made him forget the ring? It was critical. It had been specially ordered of course, and made from Welsh gold. A simple flat, wide band, the woman who was making it had assured them its reddish gleam would suit the design perfectly and look flawless. Forget traditions – a wedding ring for his wife was at the very heart of the whole matter. ‘With this ring, I thee wed,’ for heavens’ sake! Henry suspected the entire thing would be illegal if he didn’t have the ring.
Flinging open his wardrobe Henry stared helplessly at his jackets, wishing the jewelers’ card would float out of one of the pockets.
‘This is no good,’ he said aloud. ‘I need Edward.’
A few moments later his butler was at his side handing him a glass of water. Edward’s soothing tones calmed Henry with: ‘I took the liberty of telephoning the jeweler and he’ll be here at three o’clock, Your Grace. I thought it best. I hope it wasn’t too presumptuous of me?’