by Cathy Ace
‘Happy to be your chauffeur to anywhere your heart desires, Miss,’ mugged Alexander, and they were off, pausing intermittently to avoid the sheep strolling across the road as they foraged the ancient mountainsides, just as they had done for possibly thousands of years.
As Christine settled back into her seat, she felt the tension between Alexander and herself had been defused. She was also pleased to be able to help with another part of the case for the Jenkinses.
It took about forty-five minutes to reach their goal. As far as Christine could see, Three Cocks was quite a going concern, and much more built-up than she’d imagined it would be. Signs of light industry, an activity center for those she thought of as yomping-types, a high school, a garden center set up at what used to be a railway station, then finally, on the way out of the village in the direction they were heading, she spotted the Three Cocks Inn.
‘Here we are. I suggest lunch and enquiries.’ Christine unclipped her seatbelt.
‘So, just the usual then,’ quipped Alexander, hurrying out of the car to open the door for her – something Christine allowed him to do on the basis that he wanted to, and she liked it.
A sunny afternoon in June meant the delightful beer garden was busy. Inside, though the fire in the large fireplace wasn’t lit, the pub was warm – despite all the doors and windows set into the lovely old stone walls being open. The pewter mug-bedecked bar was bustling, but the pair managed to find two barstools, and the departure of a couple of men ferrying drinks to the smoking area outside allowed them a little elbow room, though they were still squashed together.
‘It might be difficult to attract anyone’s attention to get served, let alone beg information,’ noted Christine. ‘Doesn’t anyone around here have a job to go to at this time of day?’
‘Looks like we’ve hit a busy patch. Maybe it’ll quieten down soon. Do you think people around here start work early, and finish early because of it?’ said Alexander, checking his watch.
They chatted, took in their surroundings and were soon served their halves of foaming Felinfoel ale. Christine ordered an oak-smoked salmon sandwich, made with fish caught in the local Usk River, while Alexander opted for a beet and goat cheese salad, the cheese having been supplied by a goat farmer who, according to the menu, raised the animals in question just up the road. They agreed they were surprisingly peckish, and Christine kept a beady eye open so she didn’t miss the chance to talk to the landlord as soon as he was able to spare a moment.
A couple of brief, and several-times-interrupted, exchanges later she’d established the old folks’ home in question was probably Mountain Ash House, run by a couple named Fred and Sarah, though the landlord didn’t know their surname. He looked at the photograph on Christine’s phone and confirmed it was the Sarah he knew. Just as their food arrived, a table beside the open door to the garden became available, so they grabbed their plates and scurried off, glad to feel the breeze and enjoy some sustenance. The babbling in the bar meant their conversation was pleasant, but not deep, something for which Christine was grateful and, within forty minutes, they were off again, following the directions they’d been given at the pub.
SEVENTEEN
Mavis MacDonald was happy to be finally sitting on the edge of the seat of her Mini in the car park at Hay-on-Wye. The windows and doors were all wide open to allow it to cool down from oven-temperature, and she rubbed her feet with gusto. Not since she’d been running the Battersea Barracks Hospital had she felt this bad. She reckoned she was getting soft in her old age … then reminded herself she wasn’t old at all. Your mid-sixties was a time when activities like working, traveling, and even hiking and hill-walking were still real possibilities, and when there were still enough years ahead of a person for them to make plans. It was when the results of a healthy lifestyle would pay off – of that she had no doubt.
She was pleased with her day, even if she wasn’t delirious about her feet. Not only had she found out about Sarah Cruickshank at the charity shop, she’d had her information confirmed by the manager of another such establishment that specialized in clothing and clothing accessories. Mission accomplished!
She’d also enjoyed a very pleasant break with Bryn Jenkins. Luckily for her he’d recommended a little place in a back-street where, he assured her, the tea was just as good as it was at The Swan, but at half the price.
Impressed with her achievements, Bryn had agreed he’d like to know more about the circumstances of the woman in the photo, this Sarah Cruickshank, so Mavis was glad she’d already phoned Christine, knowing she’d be on her way back from Swansea with Alexander. Mavis thought at the time her colleague had sounded a bit strange on the phone, but suspected that would be something to do with the enigmatic Mr Alexander Bright – so none of her business.
Squeezing her swollen foot back into her sandal, Mavis was grateful for the Velcro on the straps that allowed her a little extra wiggle-room. She made the call she knew she had to, to let Althea know she wouldn’t be taking their usual late-afternoon stroll on the estate, then pulled out of the car park to head back to the Dower House where she planned on putting her feet up for an hour and having a cool shower before she dressed for dinner at Chellingworth Hall.
Just as Mavis revved her engine, her phone rang. It was Stephanie Twyst.
‘I’m glad I caught you, Mavis,’ said the duchess, sounding rushed. ‘I sat and did what you said – I shut my eyes in a quiet place and tried to think about all the feelings I had when I talked to that woman, and I got it. Her name’s Cruickshank, and she runs an old folks’ home somewhere in the Three Cocks area. It’s not much to go on, and I’m afraid I can’t find any paperwork relating to her visit. I know she talked to me about gaining access to Chellingworth Hall without those in wheelchairs or using walkers getting wet, which was when I put two and two together. But I can’t remember the name of the home. Does that help at all?’
‘It most certainly does, Your Grace. It helps me be more certain we’re on the right track, since your information confirms what I have gleaned from other sources. I appreciate you taking the time to think it all through. Thank you, Your Grace.’
‘You’re most welcome, Mavis. I really like Val Jenkins and I’d like to help her out if I can. She was always most generous with her cooking tips. I’ll let you get on now. See you later for dinner, I understand.’
‘Aye, indeed. I’m looking forward to it, Your Grace.’
As Mavis drove along the busy roads, she felt satisfied with a good afternoon’s work. She replayed her conversation with Bryn, and realized, to her consternation, he’d quoted the Bible at least half a dozen times during their tea break. To Mavis’s mind, that seemed like a lot. Indeed, she wasn’t used to spending time with anyone who quoted the Bible at all. She wondered if he was given to doing it all the time. Maybe it was because he was restoring biblical texts at the moment? Or maybe it spoke to the nature of the man more deeply.
EIGHTEEN
Christine wanted to be able to turn up at dinner that evening with concrete news about the Cruickshanks and the old folks’ home, so she felt excited as Alexander’s car nosed gently along the uneven track that led from the road to the substantial Victorian structure the signpost had announced as simply MOUNTAIN ASH HOUSE. The place was an inviting, large, solid-looking building, with well-maintained landscaping and several of the trees for which it had been named arcing above garden seating. A few white-haired women were sitting in the shade offered by the trees, a couple of walking frames beside them. The front door of the house was open, inviting them inside.
‘I’ll talk, you follow my lead,’ said Christine before they left the car. Alexander grunted his agreement.
Christine chose to not enter the grand old building, but instead made her way toward the three probable residents who were enjoying cups of tea set on a sturdy wooden table.
‘Hello there,’ she began, bringing her best Irish brogue to bear, ‘I was wonderin’ if any of you lovely ladies would be livin�
�� here by any chance? I’m helpin’ out a wonderful friend of me dear old grannie to find a place to settle down and meet some good folk like yourselves.’
Christine noted the three woman were all wearing outfits that suggested the warmth of the sun wasn’t quite enough for their elderly bodies to feel comfortable in anything less than a lightweight twin-set. Three pairs of eyes looked Christine up and down, then all settled upon Alexander as he strode to her side. Christine worked out what was going on.
‘This is me friend, who’s got a fancy car he just loves to drive about in the countryside, so I said he could bring me here to visit. I’m Christine and this is Alexander.’
Playing his part to the hilt, Alexander beamed at the three ladies, for whom he was now the center of attention, then reached forward to take the extended hand of the woman who was the most upright and spry-looking of the trio. Once he’d bowed his head to almost touch her knuckles with his lips, each of the other two offered up their hands, relinquishing their teacups in a trice.
‘Join us,’ said the woman who’d been kissed first. She waved to some vacant wooden chairs. Christine took the one Alexander gallantly held for her, then he himself sat.
Addressing Alexander the woman said, ‘I’m Maisie, this is Mabel and that’s Megs. The Three M’s we’re called, for obvious reasons.’
‘A pleasure to meet you all, ladies,’ replied Alexander. Christine noticed he’d polished up his accent a bit, just as she knew he would at dinner that night; he’d managed to eliminate almost every trace of South London from it by taking elocution lessons many years earlier, he’d told her. The efforts he’d made were paying off, as they did on many an occasion.
‘Your grannie’s friend will need a few bob if they want to live here,’ said Mabel.
‘But it’s worth it,’ replied Megs.
‘It’s not about the money, it’s about the lifestyle,’ added Maisie. ‘They do a good job here; not too overbearing, good food to suit all tastes and enough activities to keep our minds alive, if we want to participate. Quite a few of our fellow residents are attending a local lawn-bowls tournament in the minibus they have. As you can see, we prefer our own company.’
‘They keep the place lookin’ good out here,’ said Christine surveying the freshly-mown, emerald grass and well-weeded borders. ‘Are the rooms nice? Do you have just a room, or are they more like apartments with a kitchen and so forth? Me grannie’s friend’s a great cook, so she is. It would be just grand if she could keep on bakin’.’
‘She could bake in the main kitchen, couldn’t she, Megs? There was that woman from Scotland who did that, and we got to eat what she baked. Very good shortbread, I recall,’ said Mabel brightly. ‘Dead now, of course,’ she added on a more somber note.
Maisie sat even more upright, ‘Many of us are glad to leave behind the necessity to plan meals, go shopping, cook and clean. It’s why we’re here. But those who wish to, do, I know. Is the lady Irish, like you?’
‘She is that,’ said Christine, wondering what the response would be.
‘Good, we have no Irish here at the moment. It would make watching the international rugby more fun,’ said Megs. ‘We have a bit of a flutter on it, and it’s nice when all the countries have someone to support them.’
‘Do you have a lounge where you all mix, then? Do the owners encourage that?’ asked Christine, desperately trying to find a path to the place she wanted to be.
‘I wouldn’t say they need to encourage it,’ replied Megs. ‘Some prefer company, some don’t. You don’t have to leave your room if you don’t want to. We’ve all got our own tellies and little fridges, and we can make a cuppa too. But they arrange cards- and games-nights, that sort of thing.’
Christine took her chance. ‘The folks who run the place, are they good sorts?’
The three women all nodded.
‘Fred and Sarah Cruickshank. Nice enough. He’s the jolly one who drives us to various places in the minibus, she’s the one who does all the work. She’ll be in there now, checking the cleaners have done a good job, that the cook is on budget and has the timing right for dinner later on, and she’s making all the arrangements for our concert,’ offered Megs.
‘You have entertainment coming in?’ asked Alexander.
Megs beamed. ‘A nice young man comes to play the piano a couple of times a week. Local boy, still in school – only about seventeen – but he’s good and he makes an effort to play tunes we all know. The good, old ones. We enjoy it. Beyond that, this Friday we’re giving a concert ourselves, for the public.’ She leaned across toward Alexander, her eyes glinting. ‘I bet you can’t guess what we three will be doing.’ Her mouth pursed wickedly.
Christine saw Alexander was going to play along. ‘Now, let me think,’ he began, stroking his very attractive chin, ‘there are three of you, and you’re all too young to remember the Andrews Sisters, so not them.’ Coy head-tilting and giggling ensued. ‘And you’re all quite refined, too. Maybe something by Gilbert and Sullivan?’
Megs and Mabel squealed. Even Maisie grinned when she replied, ‘Very clever. Yes, we’re doing “Three Little Maids,” with all the necessary costumes, of course. Megs is on that, aren’t you, Megs?’ Megs nodded. ‘It should be fun. You could come. And bring your grannie’s friend with you, she could meet us all and see if she likes the place. They have a couple of rooms here for folks who want to give the place a bit of a test-run before they commit. She could do that. See if she likes us, and the Cruickshanks. Though I don’t see why anyone wouldn’t. Most people become quite fond of them. See over there?’
Christine followed Maisie’s nod and spotted a threesome walking across the lawns; she reckoned the house was set in a few acres of land, and could see most of it was grassed, with paths that allowed for the use of walking aides. She and Alexander acknowledged they saw the people Maisie had indicated.
Maisie continued, ‘They turn out to be distant relatives of a lady who passed a couple of months ago. Finally showed their faces. Never bothered when she was alive. Lived here four years without a single visitor, she did. Anyway, they turned up today to collect what she’d left them – a couple of old brooches by the sound of what they said over lunch. Not best pleased they’d motored from Birmingham for just that. Not that Birmingham is that far away, but they seem the type to never want to stray. The daughter drove them, she’s the tall one. Kicked up a bit of a fuss.’
‘And why would they be doin’ that?’ asked Christine, truly eager to know.
‘Expected a lot more, I suppose,’ replied Megs conspiratorially. ‘The people who come for the personal belongings – if anyone does – usually do.’
Christine couldn’t help but wonder how many times these three women, all of whom she put in their eighties, had seen the same situation play out … and how it made them feel about their own mortality. ‘You mean the person who’s passed hasn’t left much for them to collect?’
‘Left it all to the Cruickshanks. A lot of them do, because, as I said, people grow fond of them.’ Christine was beginning to get an uncomfortable idea about the Cruickshanks, but didn’t know how to dig much deeper without either causing concern, or irritation.
As she gave the matter some thought, a voice behind Christine made her jump. A short, round woman in her thirties wearing a lurid green nylon tabard had appeared, presumably from the house, and was hovering at the tableside. ‘Hello, I’m Amy. I help out. I see you’ve rustled yourselves up some guests, ladies. Are they staying for tea?’
Alexander’s eyes asked Christine what she wanted to do. She looked at her watch. They really needed to get away if they were going to be ready for pre-dinner drinks at Chellingworth Hall. ‘I’m so sorry, we can’t. We just dropped by on the off-chance. But we’ll be back,’ she said, rising from her seat. Alexander sprung up and held it for her. The Three M’s looked suitably impressed.
At the moment she was about to leave, Christine decided to go out on a limb and said, ‘Grannie’s friend heard
about this place from another friend of a friend, a Daisy Drayton. I believe she lived here for a while. Did any of you ladies know her, by any chance?’
Three suitably sad expressions looked up at her.
‘There was a Daisy here. Was she a Drayton? I’d have thought I’d have remembered that, because it’s a bit unusual. Too many of the Davies, Rees, Roberts and Morris around these parts to keep track of them all, but Drayton?’ She shook her head. ‘We don’t use last names a lot here, you know. She died, anyway,’ said Megs.
‘Before my time,’ added Mabel.
‘If it was the same Daisy, she’d been going downhill for a little while, and there was talk of her having to go to a proper nursing home – the sort where they can cope with the ones who need real medical attention all the time, not like here. But then she was taken ill one night, before they could move her, and she was rushed off to hospital. Never came back. It was very quick.’
‘Best way to go,’ said Megs.
‘All round really. Never know what to say, do you?’ added Mabel.
‘Lovely woman, full of life. Bent almost double, though, lots of broken bones over the years. She rode,’ said Maisie.
‘Grannie’s friend rode too, so it might be her,’ replied Christine. ‘I gather she was very good in her day.’
‘Maybe she was. Certainly had one heck of a time sitting and standing, I can tell you that much. She always said she should have had her hips and knees done donkey’s years ago, but she’d left it too late and didn’t want to risk it. Some don’t, you know – they’d rather suffer than go under the knife. Not that she was a woman afraid to take a risk on a horse, I gather, but she didn’t like hospitals.’