The Case of the Missing Morris Dancer

by Cathy Ace

  ‘I thought Elizabeth Fernley, the duke’s estate manager’s wife, was overseeing the flowers,’ said Annie.

  ‘Probably,’ said Sharon, fussing about behind the counter, ‘but that won’t stop Marjorie sticking her oar in, will it? Mind you, Elizabeth can give as good as she gets – can be quite chopsy at times. Nose put right out by the duke marrying, that one. Done most of the stuff his wife would have up until now, she has, and don’t we all flamin’ well know it.’ She looked around as if to check that none of the nonexistent customers were listening, then leaned over the counter. ‘Got it on good authority they’ve had a few ding-dongs up at the hall, Elizabeth and Stephanie.’

  ‘Really?’ said Annie, always eager to expand her understanding of the local goings-on.

  Sharon nodded and gave a conspiratorial shrug. ‘Nice woman, Stephanie. Got to know her a bit, ’cause she lived just opposite, in that cottage you’re living in now. Till she moved up to the hall, of course. Bit of a change for her, especially since she’s only normal, like us. Good for him, she’ll be. Possibly good for all of us. Reckon she’s got plans for the hall and the estate. You mark my words.’

  Annie did, and suspected Sharon was right. She might be only a youngster, but she had the gossip gathering and disseminating skills of a woman three times her age. Annie wondered if she’d picked up the skills by osmosis from her own mother, who’d done what she was now doing for decades.

  Realizing she had a chance to glean some possibly useful information, Annie opened by giving a bit, in order to get a bit. ‘Did you hear that Carol took a bit of a fall up at the Morris farm yesterday.’

  Sharon looked horrified. ‘No! She’s so close to her due date. Her and the baby alright?’

  Annie nodded. ‘They’ve both been given the all-clear by the hospital, but I wondered if you knew who it was that old man Morris’s niece was married to? Carol said she caught a glimpse of a big, burly bloke when she was there.’ She hoped this was a lie that might elicit useful information.

  Sharon looked uncertain, but she spoke with conviction nonetheless. ‘Couldn’t have been him. Like a bit of string is Rhys Roberts.’ She looked at the fluorescent tube above her head. ‘They’ve got a girl, Ann – not Annie like you, very definitely Ann, she is. I know her a bit. But the father and the mother don’t come to the village at all, to speak of. I knew Ann when I was little. A few years older than me, but we were at infants’ school together. She went to big school in Builth but my Mam and Dad said they wanted me to go to Hay. Big stink about it, there was. Anyway, they won in the end so I just lost touch with her.’

  ‘Big friends with Aubrey Morris at school, I hear,’ dared Annie.

  ‘What big ears you’ve got,’ said Sharon with a wink. ‘I’d better not rest on my laurels here, or you’ll take over my reputation as the fount of all knowledge in the village. Where’d you hear that then?’

  ‘As a professional enquiry agent, I can’t say,’ said Annie, returning Sharon’s wicked wink.

  ‘I never knew that competitive gossiping was a recognized sport, but if it’s in the next Olympics, you and me are on! I think you’re right, too. But they’d be cousins, wouldn’t they? I don’t know if that’s proper. You know, if they were to become more than friends. I don’t think I could ever fancy any of my cousins. Horrible lot they are.’ Sharon pulled a face that showed to Annie just how horrible she thought they were. ‘Hideous, most of them, too. Mam said I got all the looks in the family. But then she’s me mam, so she would I suppose.’

  Sharon began to tidy a few items on the counter, and Annie felt she only had one more chance to gather some useful information.

  Girding her loins she went in for the kill. ‘Another little gem I picked up is that the Rhys Roberts you mentioned earlier has a bit of a temper on him.’

  Sharon looked across the counter at Annie with a strange glint in her eye. ‘Gossip is one thing, and I’m all for it. It’s how a place like this functions. I might be running this shop for the next forty years, so I won’t go cutting off my nose to spite my face by saying anything nasty about no one. Even if it is true.’ She nodded at Annie in a most significant manner.

  ‘Got it, doll. You never said a word,’ replied the enquiry agent, then added, ‘I’ll have two packets of Fisherman’s Friends, please. That’ll be it.’

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Christine Wilson-Smythe woke up with a dreadful hangover. Luckily she was in her own bed in London, and alone, so it didn’t matter that the make-up she’d so carefully applied the evening before made her look as though she had two black eyes, bruised cheeks and a gash for a mouth. Christine looked at her watch and was horrified to discover it was almost eleven o’clock. She was due to collect her outfit for the wedding at noon, had to drop by the designer’s store to deliver that invoice for Carol, and get back to Chellingworth in time to have dinner with Henry and Stephanie.

  Having been promised an ‘unseasonably warm day in London’, Christine grabbed a beige two-piece trouser suit from her wardrobe, a cream cashmere cardigan, which she buttoned up to make it work as a sweater beneath her jacket and a brown knitted wrap – just in case ‘unseasonably warm’ actually meant ‘too chilly by half’.

  Cursing the traffic inching across Battersea Bridge, Christine pulled on her sunglasses and tuned in to BBC Radio 4. She half-listened to a comedy, but her mind was wandering. Unable to drive over the vehicles in front of her, Christine was glad to have the distraction of a phone call from Mavis.

  ‘Did you manage any of that Latin translation we sent you?’ were the first words out of Mavis’s mouth.

  ‘Aye, that I did,’ mugged Christine.

  ‘Ach, away with ya, you cheeky wee thing. No making fun of my accent now. So, what did she say, this mysterious Boudica? Hang on a mo, while I switch to speakerphone so Althea can hear you too. Right, off you go.’

  ‘It’s been longer than I thought since I sat down and pored over De Bello Gallico by Julius Caesar or Historiae by Tacitus. I used to hate Latin translation classes. I’d stand there, with The Gallic Wars or The Histories in my hand, shaking. They were awfully boring and full of details about troop movements. Still, I suppose it must have taken, because I quite enjoyed reading Latin again. It came flooding back to me – though I have to say there’s some vocabulary that escaped me. Caesar and Tacitus must not have thought it worthwhile to write about fun things – but Boudica certainly did. From what I can gather the person to whom she was writing was very good with his hands.’

  She heard Althea giggle in the background like a schoolgirl. ‘Stop it,’ said Mavis.

  ‘I don’t mean like that,’ continued Christine. ‘Apparently Caradoc could make anything; envisage, design and build or make things. He made her gifts, useful things that she took back to her farm with her. She spoke of each of them fondly. Since we know these letters were sent to Aubrey, that much makes sense. But – and here’s the bad thing – she talks about him a lot, and their times together a great deal, and how she wishes they could spend more time together, but she doesn’t talk about herself very much. All I got was that they are the same age as each other, she lives on a farm, they have visited the archeological site of Caerleon many times, and have very much enjoyed seeing it being excavated and explained more as the years have passed. She seems to like to throw in the odd Italian phrase along with the Latin. Not a surprise, I suppose, but I thought I’d mention it. As for the Welsh? I think she must be bilingual, and possibly first language Welsh. She almost scribbles in Welsh, but her handwriting is much more careful in Latin. The two early ones are not love letters in the normal sense; they don’t proclaim love in the adult, or physical way, but she’s clearly desperate to be with him more than she can be, poor thing. They speak of time spent together by two people who share common interests, common life-views, and have a common enemy. Again, no names, I’m afraid, just “him”. No amo, amas or amat-ing, but sentimental stuff.’

  ‘Amo means “I love”,’ said Althea somewhere in
what Christine assumed was Chellingworth’s Dower House.

  ‘Aye, dear. Even my Latin runs that far,’ replied Mavis. ‘So, if that term’s not in use, maybe we’re talking about an unconsummated love. Any more news, Christine?’

  ‘The most recent letter was written in Welsh more than Latin, so I can’t add much about that one – though the tone is different. She’s now talking about their common enemy with real apprehension. One phrase she used was “stop at nothing to keep us apart”, which I must say is worrying.’

  Mavis was silent for a moment then said, ‘I don’t like the sound of that, but it’s good to know. Anything more?’

  ‘No, nothing I can add right now. I’m just about to try to park to collect my gown for the wedding, then I’ll drop off that invoice, then I’m back onto the M4 to head for Chellingworth. I’m supposed to dine with Henry and Stephanie at the hall tonight.’

  ‘Just a heads-up, dear, Clementine has installed herself, broken leg, wheelchair, nurse and all. Best be prepared for that.’

  ‘How did she break her leg?’ Christine couldn’t imagine the heroin-chic Clementine doing anything that demanded physical exertion or danger.

  ‘Apparently she drove her car over a bicycle and into a lamppost.’

  ‘That’s very careless of Clemmie. Was the cyclist hurt badly?’

  ‘None to be found, dear.’

  ‘How odd.’

  ‘Aye, that it is.’

  ‘Most things connected with my dear daughter are a little off kilter,’ piped up Althea in the background. ‘I dare say it’s my fault.’

  ‘Do as my parents do and blame the nanny,’ replied Christine.

  ‘I selected the nannies, so I’m even to blame for that,’ said Althea. Christine thought she sounded a little tired, but didn’t mention it.

  ‘I’m about to park. Phone me if you need me, but now I have to concentrate.’

  ‘Thanks for your help,’ called Mavis, then Christine cut off the phone and wriggled the Range Rover into a space that was a very tight squeeze.

  It took Christine just as long to park as it did to collect her ensemble for the wedding, and she was back in the traffic in about twenty minutes. Crawling along the King’s Road she got stuck next to a lamppost for a while, and a makeshift sign caught her eye.

  ARE YOU WITNIS TO ACSIDENT HERE THURSDAY 20TH? MAN VERY HURT ON BYSICLE. DRIVER GONE. WOMAN. BLACK CAR. BIG. WE NEED HELP!

  The sign concluded with the word ‘REWARD’ in huge letters and a mobile phone number. As she finally began to inch forward, Christine couldn’t help but wonder when exactly Clementine Twyst had hit a ‘disappearing’ cyclist. Realizing she wasn’t getting anywhere fast, she phoned Mavis again, having snapped a photo of the sign.

  ‘Something more to report?’ was Mavis’s businesslike reply to Christine’s call.

  ‘No, but I do have a question. It’s about Clementine.’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Do you know exactly where and when she had her unfortunate encounter with a bicycle?’

  Mavis chuckled. ‘As befits Her Ladyship, she’s been vague, but I believe it was last Thursday, somewhere along the King’s Road. Do you have a reason for asking?’

  Christine hesitated. ‘I don’t know yet. I need to check something out, but I’m in a bit of a rush. Tell you what, I’ll phone Carol and get her to help. She’ll be better at it than I would in any case. Thanks, Mavis. Bye.’

  As the traffic finally eased a little, Christine realized she was approaching her destination, so decided to phone Carol after dropping off the invoice she’d promised she’d deliver. If anyone could find out if there was a connection between Clementine’s smash and a poorly-spelled plea for help at the roadside, it would be Carol.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Mavis hadn’t made it as far as the office during the morning, though it didn’t seem she’d needed to; she had her phone, her laptop and an endless supply of tea brought on little silver trays by Lindsey Newbury to see her through to lunch, plus the additional advantage that she was able to operate from a very comfy sofa in front of a warm fire with a good friend in the room and an endlessly entertaining dog to boot.

  ‘We’ve had a very productive morning,’ observed Althea as the women walked to the dining room for lunch. ‘Don’t fuss, McFli,’ she added indulgently, as the little fellow yapped and circle-danced his way ahead of the women, then behind them.

  ‘Aye, that we have,’ agreed Mavis. ‘Good leads from both Annie and Christine seem to confirm Ann Roberts is the girl Aubrey might have gone off with and an elopement is on the cards. Now we need to find out more about her father Rhys. It’s clear the pair of them had a yen for Rome, so that might be where they were headed eventually. But how to begin that trip with no van? And our original research told us there were no flight plans made via Aubrey’s computer.’

  ‘Exactly,’ replied Althea.

  ‘I was thinking we might take a trip out to the Morris farm this afternoon, with Ian to drive us, so we could collect Carol’s car. I’ll drive it back to her house.’

  ‘That’s a very good cover story, Mavis. Do you think we should telephone ahead of time?’

  ‘Och no. Let’s allow it to be a wee surprise for them, having the dowager drop in,’ said Mavis with a wink.

  ‘Oh yes, let’s,’ said Althea, tucking into her leek and potato soup with relish.

  ‘Ydw?’ The tall, gangly frame of a man in his forties Mavis judged to be in need of a good bath stood in the doorway of the Morris farmhouse. Mavis had no idea what the man had said, but his expression meant she didn’t need it translated to get the overall gist.

  ‘I am Nurse Mavis MacDonald, retired, and this—’ she said motioning to the diminutive figure next to her – ‘is her Grace, the Dowager Duchess of Chellingworth, Lady Althea Twyst.’

  As Mavis and the man in the doorway regarded Althea, she stared back at them both from beneath the brim of a waxed cotton hat that had seen better days, and from within the folds of a bilious yellow scarf which was stuffed into the front of her over-long waxed cotton jacket. Her daffodil-yellow wellies set off the outfit a treat.

  ‘We don’t want whatever it is you’re selling, and we haven’t got no money to give you neither,’ growled the man. ‘So whoever you are, you can just hop it.’

  ‘We are not collecting for charity, young man,’ said Althea in what Mavis knew to be her poshest tones, ‘nor are we offering anything for sale. We are here to retrieve the motor vehicle that had to be abandoned when a pregnant woman was injured in your house, yesterday, and had to be rushed to the hospital. A matter which will be fully investigated, I am sure.’

  At the word ‘investigated’ Mavis noticed the man stiffen. With a worried chuckle he said, ‘Now, now. No need for an investigation. My missus told me some woman slipped in the hall here. That’s all. Why? What’s happened to her?’ Mavis heard panic in the man’s voice. ‘What’s she been saying? Wasn’t even here at the time, me. I had nothing to do with it. Won’t say another word, I won’t.’

  ‘Are you Mr Roberts?’ said Mavis boldly.

  The man’s eyes narrowed. ‘What’s that to you?’ His voice held a challenge.

  Mavis was certain he was the man she was seeking. During her decades of nursing she’d met thousands of men who’d gone to do battle for their country, and she’d learned some of them were there for the simple reason that they liked to be in a fight – any fight, for any reason, with anyone. Their natural state of being was to always be ready to throw a punch when a well-formed sentence would do the trick just as well. She judged the Roberts man to be of that ilk.

  ‘Sir, the health of the woman injured in this house is a matter to be discussed at a future date. For now, we are simply here to retrieve her car. Of course, we wouldn’t have dreamed of removing it without telling a responsible person that we were doing so. Are you such a person? Do you have standing with the Morris family?’

  It was clear to Mavis that her manner had caught the man off guar
d. He scratched his greasy hair with a grubby hand that held a half-smoked hand rolled cigarette and a book of matches. Turning in the doorway he shouted, ‘Netta, there’s someone here to take that woman’s car. Can they have it?’

  Mavis and Althea waited patiently. They, and the man at the door, knew they were under the watchful gaze of Ian Cottesloe who, once again, had followed his employer’s instructions and was sitting in the dowager’s car – with his head poking out of the window.

  A tired-looking woman arrived at the door, which the man opened wider to allow her to see the two women.

  ‘Good afternoon, I am Mavis MacDonald, and this is—’

  ‘Your Grace!’ said the woman, dropping the tea towel upon which she’d been drying her hands. ‘What are you … Rhys, why didn’t you say? Your Grace, did you want to come in?’ Mavis could sense the woman’s consternation and decided to make full use of it.

  ‘Lady Althea and I have been unable to get any information out of this man. Who is he? And who are you?’ Mavis used her gentle tone, with just a hint of the matron about it.

  Pushing lank locks behind her ears, the woman all but curtsied. ‘I’m Netta. Mrs Netta Roberts. This is Rhys, my husband. Mr Herbert Morris, who owns this farm, is my uncle. How is she, the poor woman that fell here yesterday? Is she alright? Is the baby alright? Ever so worried I’ve been about her. Her husband was so frightened when I spoke to him on the phone. Do you know how she is?’

  Mavis judged real concern on the part of Netta Roberts, and allowed a warm smile to crease her face as she replied, ‘Quite well, my dear. The hospital gave her and the baby a clean bill of health. But your husband could have been more helpful, had he but tried. We simply wanted to ensure we told a member of the family that we were taking Carol’s car. You understand I am sure, my dear.’ She touched the woman’s arm as she spoke – a sign of reassurance and a bridge to build confidence, she always felt. Netta Roberts winced, which worried Mavis a great deal.