The Case of the Missing Morris Dancer

by Cathy Ace

  ‘Aubrey Morris has disappeared from Anwen-by-Wye,’ said Carol quickly. ‘I know he’s related to you and I thought you might know where he’s got to.’

  The man allowed the door to open a little, taking the pressure off Carol’s foot and allowing him to peer at her once again.

  ‘And what’s it to you?’ asked the man, jutting his stubbly chin toward her.

  Carol decided it was best to be truthful. Pulling her ID card from her pocket she showed it to the man. ‘My name is Carol Hill and I am an enquiry agent. Our company has been retained to locate Aubrey Morris.’

  The elderly man squinted at the wallet. ‘Could be anything, that. Come in while I gets me glasses.’

  He pulled open the door and Carol was almost overcome by the smell of grease, cauliflower and something burned. She swallowed hard a few times, resisting the desire to gag. ‘Thanks,’ she said, quite feebly as it turned out.

  Venturing inside the farmhouse made Carol feel uneasy. One dim lightbulb tried hard to illuminate the hallway, but it was set in a fitting meant for four bulbs, so it didn’t achieve much at all. As the door closed behind her the weak light of the wintry afternoon disappeared altogether and she was enclosed in a stinky, gloomy world.

  ‘Glasses are in the kitchen. Follow me,’ said the man as he shuffled along the Victorian tiles which, had they been clean, might have been very attractive. As it was they were so grimy they were treacherously slippery. Carol walked with great caution, allowing her eyes to adjust to the dimness of her surroundings.

  The kitchen wasn’t much brighter despite the fact it had a large window without a curtain. A film of grime coated the glass, filtering the daylight, and a bare strip of fluorescent tubing hummed above a large kitchen table completely covered with the detritus that remained from making what appeared to be vegetable soup – which went some way to explaining the smell.

  ‘Show it me again,’ snapped the man holding out his hand for Carol’s photograph and credentials. Peering through greasy spectacles the man took his time, mouthing words silently as he read them. Eventually it seemed he was satisfied and he handed the wallet back to Carol.

  ‘I’m Morris,’ he said. ‘Herbert, me. Aubrey’s father’s uncle. Haven’t seen Aubrey in, let me think …’ He took his time doing so. ‘Twenty years?’

  ‘You’re telling me you haven’t seen Aubrey Morris in the last twenty years?’ Carol wanted to be clear.

  ‘About that.’

  ‘So you didn’t go to his father’s funeral?’

  Herbert Morris looked grumpy. ‘Well, yes, I suppose I did. But I haven’t seen him since then.’

  ‘So you wouldn’t have any idea where he might be?’

  ‘How would I? Never welcome here, he wasn’t.’

  Carol pounced. ‘Why’s that?’

  Herbert pulled off his glasses as he said slyly, ‘No reason, really. Just, you know, family stuff.’

  ‘Anything to do with the question of inheritance?’ asked Carol with a leap of faith. Herbert’s reaction told her she’d hit a raw nerve.

  ‘I don’t see why you’d say that,’ he almost squealed. ‘Village gossip, that’s what that is. This farm’s gone down the line of eldest sons like it’s supposed to – to me, and it’ll go to my eldest when I’m gone. It’s not unfair, it’s what’s right. Lot of fuss people make about things that have nothing to do with them. My younger brother, Aubrey’s granddad, didn’t expect to get the farm – no more than my sister did. We do things the right way here.’

  ‘Did you set up your sister when you inherited, like you set up your brother near Anwen-by-Wye?’ Carol was curious.

  ‘Didn’t need to,’ replied Herbert grumpily, ‘stayed on here, she did. Her and her family live in the house down there. All of them.’ He stubbed a thumb toward the kitchen window.

  ‘You mean the house a little way down the hillside?’

  Herbert nodded. ‘Nice set up for them.’ Carol noted he didn’t speak with any malice and his smile seemed to signify kind thoughts.

  ‘Would your sister be likely to know anything about Aubrey’s whereabouts?’ Carol thought it a question worth asking.

  Herbert Morris hunched his bony shoulders and stuck out his chin, then he spat out, ‘Absolutely not. She and her … family have had no contact with that boy for many a year, not since he left school, and they won’t have again. So there. I don’t know nothing, so be off with you, woman.’

  There were few worse things Herbert Morris could have done than fling Carol’s gender in her face as though it were an accusation. Resisting the temptation to let rip at the man, Carol took a deep breath, nodded abruptly, turned on her heel and made for the front door. She knew she didn’t dare say a word, or she’d overstep the bounds of professionalism before she’d finished a sentence.

  Striding out in anger, Carol forgot to be as careful as she should have been on the greasy tiles. About halfway along the hallway she felt her right foot slide from under her just as she put her full weight onto it. She couldn’t do anything but flail her arms and let out a little shout as she skidded forward and toppled backward at the same time. As she fell onto her rear end she put out her hands to save herself, and heard something give way. It was the last thing she heard for a moment or two. She realized she must have closed her eyes, because, when she opened them, Herbert Morris was standing over her waving his arms about and shouting.

  ‘Please phone for an ambulance,’ said Carol calmly, ‘and tell them I’m pregnant – in my final month.’

  ‘I’ll phone my niece too,’ said Herbert.

  ‘999 first, please,’ said Carol firmly.

  ‘Right-o,’ replied Herbert and Carol caught parts of conversations, then decided to rest her eyes for a moment.

  ‘Feeling a bit better now, are you?’

  Carol heard a woman’s voice far, far away. She tried to focus on what it was saying. She peeled her eyes open and said, ‘I’m here.’

  ‘Yes, love, I know you’re here. Now just lie still. Ambulance is on its way. I’m Netta Roberts. Herbert’s my uncle. He phoned me and asked me to come over. Just in case. Ambulance shouldn’t be long.’

  Carol tried to sit up, but Netta pushed her down, gently. ‘Now, now, stay down,’ she said firmly, ‘you don’t want to move until the professionals are here. Nowhere to go, anyway.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Carol quietly. ‘I think I heard something break when I fell but I can’t feel any terrible pain anywhere.’

  Netta and her uncle looked at each other. Carol couldn’t see any family resemblance – indeed, Netta was about twice the size of her uncle, in all directions. ‘That might be good, or not,’ she said, ‘I don’t know. I’m not a nurse.’

  It occurred to Carol she should let David and her colleagues know what had happened. If the ambulance was going to take her to hospital her car would be stuck at the Morris farm until David could get a lift to come to collect it, and he’d need it if he had to visit her in hospital, or collect her from there. She knew Althea would probably loan out Ian Cottesloe for the job, but she hated to ask. However, with Christine away in London with her car, the only other option for David would be a taxi, and that would cost a small fortune. Then there was the enquiry – what should she do about that?

  ‘What are you worrying about?’ asked Netta. ‘I can see the hamster running round the wheel from here. Can I phone someone for you, is that it?’

  Carol reeled off telephone numbers to Netta, who wrote them on her hand, promising to make the calls. ‘Terrible mobile signals up here,’ she noted, confirming Carol’s own observation upon her arrival, ‘and the phone in the kitchen won’t reach you here in the hallway, so I’ll phone your husband first and explain to him what’s happening, then I’ll phone him again once the ambulance people tell me what they’re doing with you, alright? Maybe your work can wait though? Not so urgent, is it really?’

  ‘It’s your relative, Aubrey Morris, who’s missing. That’s what I came here to enquire about,’ s
aid Carol sharply. She noticed Netta Roberts stiffen when she heard the young man’s name.

  ‘You don’t have to remind me about that, Uncle’s just told me.’

  Carol was surprised by how tense the woman had become. Herbert Morris had been evasive, but his niece was … what? … frightened. That was it. The news that Aubrey was missing had frightened her. Just as Carol was thinking this was an odd reaction, she caught the sound of sirens in the distance and a flood of relief washed over her.

  Netta said, ‘There they are. I’ll phone your husband now. Back in a tick.’

  She disappeared in the direction of the kitchen, leaving Carol alone with Herbert standing over her. He’d been silently watching the two women but finally spoke. ‘I never touched you. Fell all on your own, you did, rushing off without even a “thank you”. You make sure you tell them that, right?’ Then he followed his niece out of Carol’s sight.

  On the edge of her hearing Carol caught, ‘If Aubrey’s gone too, I bet I can guess where she is. With him. I bet they never stopped. I just hope her father hasn’t found out … he’s been acting funny the past couple of days, and you know how he can get with that temper of his. I thought he was acting strange because she hasn’t been in touch at all but if …’

  The sirens drowned out anything else, and Carol lay completely still, waiting for a paramedic to tell her if she and Bump were going to be alright. She clutched her belly and tried to get her heart to stop thumping with worry. Please let our baby be alright, please let our baby be alright …

  SIXTEEN

  Althea’s tapping foot signaled to Mavis the dowager was beginning to lose her patience with waiting quietly while Mavis herself sat in front of Aubrey Morris’s computer and scrolled through what seemed to be endless emails about almost nothing at all. Mavis felt she’d made good headway, and was glad she could read as fast as she could. She was also pleased that Aubrey Morris seemed to have an effective method of using clear titles for emails, so she could quickly discount most as being related to jobs he was doing, or she could take the time to read those about his hobbies – ancient Welsh and Roman ruins.

  Aware that Althea was being quiet, though fidgety, Mavis looked over at her companion and said, ‘There’s nothing says you can’t go and have a little look around the place if you want, you know. I’m sure it’s best if you don’t go digging too much, but you’re the one who’s commissioned this investigation, so practice your skills. Being one quarter each Welsh, Irish, Scottish and English might mean we’re happy to have you as an honorary WISE woman, but we are also enquiry agents, so please feel free to enquire … within.’

  The two women smiled at Mavis’s little joke. Althea launched herself off the high stool where she’d been perching for no more than fifteen minutes – though it clearly felt like a lot longer to the woman – and headed off up the stairs to Aubrey’s bedroom. ‘I’ll be up here,’ she called to Mavis. ‘Long time since I’ve been in a strange man’s bedroom,’ she added. Mavis was heartened by the chuckle in her friend’s almost-octogenarian voice.

  Half an hour later, Mavis was still lost in her task and was startled when Althea rattled a tin near her ear.

  ‘Och you dreadful woman – you gave me a fright,’ chided Mavis playfully. ‘What’s that?’

  Althea held up the large, battered old biscuit tin triumphantly. ‘What do you think it is?’

  ‘Button tin, I’d say. Every house used to have one.’ Looking at her surroundings Mavis added, ‘This is exactly the sort of house where I’d expect there to be a button tin.’

  ‘I wonder if people have them anymore,’ said Althea quietly, ‘or if they just throw out clothes without removing the buttons first. Terrible waste if they do. My mother had one, and I have it now. I’m not sure I’ve added many buttons to it myself – not since the children were small. Odd that, isn’t it? One of those things that might die out, d’you think?’

  ‘Aye. Like us,’ replied Mavis. ‘Have you opened it?’

  ‘I can’t’ said Althea looking disappointed. ‘That’s why I brought it down. It seemed odd to me that a young man would have a button tin in his own bedroom, and when you shake it, it sounds as though the buttons are being muffled by something else. But the lid’s so tight I can’t get it off. Fingers aren’t quite what they used to be,’ she added with a disappointed glance.

  Mavis took the tin and tackled the lid. ‘It’s certainly snug,’ she observed. Refusing to be beaten, she worked her way patiently around all four sides of the cube-shaped tin, trying to ease up the lid which showed a painted representation of The Mutiny on the Bounty. ‘Odd picture for a tin of Peak Freans,’ she observed, straining at her task.

  Finally the lid flew off, and Mavis caught it before it hit Althea in the face. A couple of dozen buttons also bounced up, a few landing on the floor. ‘Ach!’ said Mavis, bending to collect up the stray buttons.

  ‘So? What’s in it? Anything interesting?’ Althea sounded like an excited schoolgirl.

  ‘I think you’ve got a nose for this enquiring, Althea dear,’ replied Mavis smiling. ‘There are letters in here. Proper handwritten letters in envelopes, with stamps on them. Well, some have.’

  Mavis smiled at the sight of Althea almost quivering with excitement. ‘Who are they to? Who are they from? What do they say?’ Questions tumbled out of the woman in much the same way as they’d do from someone seventy years her junior.

  ‘First things first,’ said Mavis. Instead of pulling the letters out of the tin, she placed the tin carefully beside the computer on the desk in front of her and reached into her handbag. ‘We don’t know what we’re dealing with yet, so please put these on.’ She handed the dowager a pair of surgical gloves.

  ‘You haven’t raised the necessity for me to wear these as I’ve been making my way about Aubrey’s home. Why would you do so now?’ Althea took the gloves from her friend with the tips of her fingers. She looked at them as though they were made from something corrosive.

  ‘The house? Likely to be lots of prints about the place and it would be easy for anyone to eliminate ours, should it ever come to that. These letters? They might be critical and more telling in terms of those who have had contact with them – especially the pages of the contents rather than the envelopes. I do not want to run the risk of contaminating them. Those gloves won’t kill you, Althea, please put them on.’

  Althea wrestled with the uncooperative latex for a couple of moments, and was finally triumphant. While she struggled, Mavis, already gloved, pulled out several of the letters and lay them on the desk, examining the envelopes before she made any move to reveal their contents. She took photographs with her phone.

  ‘These are all written by the same hand,’ she commented. ‘I’d say it’s a woman’s writing – neat, rounded. Penmanship mattered to this person and they took time writing these addresses. All are addressed to Aubrey Morris, here. The postmarks, where I can discern them, show me the letters were sent over a long period of time, beginning back in the late 1990s.’ Mavis spread all the letters across the table and peered at them. ‘Look – this second, smaller bundle just has the letter “C” on the envelopes, and they’re all grubby and dog-eared.’ Mavis paused. ‘That’s all the envelopes can tell me. Now let’s see who they are from, and what they say.’

  Mavis selected three letters – an early one, a later one, both properly addressed to Aubrey, and the topmost of the seemingly un-posted envelopes. She carefully pulled out the letters and lay them beside their envelopes.

  ‘Who are they from?’ urged Althea.

  Mavis turned over pages until she reached all three signatures. ‘Boudica. That’s all it says.’ She turned the sheets over again. ‘The letters are written to Cariad Caradoc, that being Aubrey, according to the addressed envelopes.’

  ‘Interesting,’ said Althea, ‘Boudica and Caradoc were two famous warrior leaders who each fought the Roman invaders of Britain. The warrior queen Boudica in the Midlands and eastern counties of what is now Engl
and, and Caradoc led his men against the Romans here, in Wales. Whoever this Boudica might be, she and Aubrey saw themselves as facing a common foe. What does she say?’

  ‘I cannot say, dear,’ was Mavis’s disappointing reply. ‘Look.’

  She allowed Althea to peer at the letters. ‘Oh dear. And I can’t help at all.’

  ‘They’re all written in a mixture of Welsh and Latin,’ said Mavis sounding glum. She sat back in her chair and hooked her hair behind her ears.

  ‘You do that when you’re thinking hard about something,’ observed Althea.

  ‘I do not,’ replied Mavis tartly.

  ‘Indeed you do. And when you’re getting ready to say something significant. So, come on, which is it?’ The dowager smiled kindly at her friend.

  ‘Maybe a little of each,’ said Mavis with a playful smile. ‘How’s your Welsh?’

  Althea faltered. ‘When I married Henry’s father and moved to Chellingworth Hall I took lessons. But it didn’t stick. It’s a terribly difficult language and, of course, I had trouble just making the right sounds back then. With more than fifty years of living in Wales under my belt the sound of the language is more familiar, and my own ability to make the shapes needed to pronounce it has improved, so it’s now much easier for me to comprehend and even reproduce. When we have the Lord’s Prayer in Welsh in church I’m quite good at it. But I’ve always found reading it to be beyond me. Not a linguist, you see.’

  ‘Henry?’

  ‘Hopeless.’

  Mavis could feel Althea waiting for her to come up with something. She sighed. ‘Right, first things first – Christine went to all the best schools and I’m sure she’d have been taught Latin. I only know whatever I’ve picked up in terms of medical knowledge, and you?’

  ‘I might have married a duke, but my schools weren’t what you’d call “posh”,’ replied Althea. ‘We had Latin at grammar school, but it’s long gone from my poor old brain. The bits I use for crosswords are about it. I think Christine’s our best bet for the Latin. She’s much younger, she won’t have forgotten as much.’