Jane Hetherington's Adventures In Detection

by Nina Jon

  JB’

  “So, Miss Preston, which am I to open?” Hugh asked her. “Or should I say Mrs Marshman.”

  “The champagne. But not just yet,” she said, moving forward to kiss him, and beginning to undo the buttons on his shirt.

  V

  The following day, Jane did as she’d promised Hugh she would and paid a visit to Stan’s sister.

  Merle lived not far from the house where Jane grew up. She used her friends impending nuptials as a pretext for a visit and arrived clutching a card and a small gift. Merle still lived with her parents and her father opened the front door.

  “Jane!” he exclaimed. “What a charming surprise. Come in my dear, come in.”

  Jane stepped into the house. “I heard about Merle’s engagement, and I wanted her to have these.”

  “Merle, you’ll never guess who’s here?” Merle’s father shouted upstairs to his daughter.

  Merle appeared genuinely overcome by Jane’s visit, and almost fell down the stairs in her eagerness to greet her old friend.

  “Jane, I’m so glad you’ve come!” she said, clutching Jane’s hand and dragging her into the front room. The two women sat on the couch holding hands.

  “I thought you’d be upset when you heard about the wedding.”

  “Well, I was a bit miffed.”

  “You had every right to be more than miffed.”

  “Well, I was, now you mention it,” Jane continued, almost forgetting the purpose of her visit. “I thought I’d get an invitation, despite everything. I was quite hurt when I didn’t. I love weddings.”

  “An invitation?” Merle said. She and her father glanced at each other.

  “I know Stan and I are still technically married and everything, but we could have had a quick word beforehand about formally ending things.”

  “A quick word beforehand?” Merle repeated incredulously.

  Again she looked over at her father, her face a picture of confusion and embarrassment.

  “I’ll make us a nice pot of tea,” he said, diplomatically leaving the room.

  Jane couldn’t control herself any longer: “Why haven’t I been invited to your wedding? I’m the only one I know who hasn’t received an invitation,” she said, getting quite worked up. “Did it get lost in the post?”

  “Jane,” Merle said, once again taking her friend’s hands in hers, “Stan was married a few months ago. That’s the marriage I was talking about. That’s why I couldn’t invite you to mine. I was worried when you found out you might throw something at Stan – like the cake.”

  “I can’t see how he’s got married to someone else,” Jane said, attempting to salvage what was left of her dignity. “Stan and I got married in Scotland, you know that. I haven’t served him with divorce papers, and I haven’t received any from him, and therefore, the way I see it we must still be married, although I agree it’s not a situation which can continue.”

  “That wasn’t a real marriage, Jane,” Merle exclaimed. “Stan set it up because you were upset and he didn’t know what else to do. It was meant to show his commitment to you, not that that’s turned out to be worth much, I grant you. He rang his army friends up in Scotland and they arranged it all when you were going up on the train. One of them pretended to officiate. I think he genuinely intended to go through with the real thing once he got back, but I guess his feelings must have changed. I thought you knew?” she said.

  “How would I have known?” Jane said crossly.

  “Well maybe not at the time, but you must have thought about it afterwards, and thought it a bit suspicious. There wasn’t enough time to read the banns, for a start.”

  Although this wasn’t something that Jane had considered at the time, it was something she had thought about subsequently.

  “I thought they did things differently in Gretna Green.”

  “Oh Jane,” Merle said, a hand over her mouth to stop her from laughing out loud. “How could you have thought a ceremony in a pub was real?”

  “Pub? It was a registry office.”

  “It was the back room of a pub,” Merle corrected her friend.

  “It can’t have been. We were given a certificate.”

  “I think you’ll find it’s a fake, love. I can’t believe you thought that was real,” Merle said, laughing.

  Jane didn’t laugh.

  “I was seventeen. I was in love,” Jane said, defensively. “It’s lucky I didn’t get pregnant,” she added, indignantly.

  “I’ll say,” Merle agreed. “It must have been very authentic to fool you.”

  “It was,” Jane said, beginning to see the funny side of things. “At least I thought so at the time, but then I was so in love with Stan, I would have believed anything he told me. I suppose the paper the certificate was written on was a bit cheap, and the registry office did smell of cheap booze and vomit, as did the vicar. But it was in Gretna Green, and I just thought that’s how they did things there.”

  VI

  All that had been the best part of half a century ago, Jane realised. In that time she’d inevitably lost touch with Merle. Her fiancé had been fifteen years older than she was and therefore she too might well be a widow. Come to think of it, Jane didn’t know if Merle herself was still alive.

  She knew Stanman was alive though, because he’d become a relatively well-known, although probably not very rich, writer of comic poetry. Jane had even bought a compilation of his poems. After Hugh’s death, in the height of her grief, she’d derived comfort from their absurdity. She kept a book of his poems in her study. Once back from Charity’s house, she took the book from the shelf, opened it at random and began to read a poem.

  One dark night in Merthyr Tydfil

  One dark night in Merthyr Tydfil, sat stock-still one Bertha Sydgill.

  The lights were dimmed and the cards read and unfortunately the mystic said,

  Bertha, the Grim Reaper has you caught, for in my hand I hold Mort!

  Bertha, the odds are not in your favour, clearly you have erred in your behaviour,

  but sometimes the spirits change their minds, or like the mortals up to wind.

  You mustn’t feel too askance. You have a one in a billion chance!

  You have drawn the straw which is short, but do not be too distraught.

  For I know many away to postpone what should plainly be your Judgement Day.

  There is a way to avoid the portent, from the world you must make yourself absent!

  Do not marry, nor live in sin; most murderers are next of kin.

  Fear especially the company of strangers, for in their midst there lurks many dangers.

  And for Heaven’s sake, don’t make the mistake of not staying awake!

  All this I told her and more, yet still she could not keep death from her door.

  Ladies and gentlemen of the inquest jury, Bertha had incurred the Fates’ fury.

  She had tried to escape her fate and this can only the underworld infuriate!

  The Gods can weave, they can deceive, they can grant a last-minute reprieve.

  They can leave us all uncertain as to whether or not this is the final curtain.

  Sometimes we come face to face with Death, but still don’t take our last breath!

  Others receive but short-shrift, and for those poor fools the end is swift.

  It was simply time for Bertha to meet her maker and nothing could be done to save her.

  The Gods wanted Bertha dead, and so they went and dropped an eagle on her head!

  V

  She closed the book and made her way to the kitchen where she put the kettle on. While the kettle boiled, Jane’s mind began to wander. Was Stan married? Divorced? A widower? She had no idea. Probably the best way to find out, she decided, was to ask him herself. She returned to her study with a hot drink, intending to log onto his website, but before she was able to she found an e-mail from Sam waiting for her. She couldn’t believe her eyes when she read it.

  ‘I know you’re going to t
ell me Phil’s found someone else, so I went round to the store and confronted him. I couldn’t wait any longer. I told him I’d got a private detective on to him, and he’d better stop lying to me, because I could prove he had another woman and everything. I showed him the e-mail I sent you and your reply to prove I’d really done it.’

  Jane closed her eyes momentarily, before reading on.

  ‘He said you couldn’t be very good at your job, or you’d have told me he wasn’t seeing anyone else. Then he said if I needed to employ a private detective, we shouldn’t be together. I guess I don’t need your services anymore. I’ve driven him away and I don’t know what to do about it.’

  Jane pictured Sam in tears typing the e-mail. She realised she was either going to have to do nothing or do something pretty unorthodox. She decided on the latter. Sam confessing to having hired her, made this job easier.

  A plan of action fleshed out, she returned to the matter in hand and logged into the Stan’s website. ‘Stan,’ she typed. ‘I’m not sure you’ll even remember me, it was all so long ago now.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  SIGMUND

  I

  Iain Gray’s school hall was already fi lling up for the pre- sentation by the time Jane arrived with Iain’s parents. Alfi e and his mother, Margaret, were also there. This was the fi rst time everyone had met up since the visit to Margaret’s house. Alfi e, who had schooled Iain on his presentation, was particularly smartly dressed, hav- ing smoothed back his hair and donned a red waistcoat. The party took their places: Dawn sat down fi rst with Alfi e next to her. Jane sat next to him, Alastair to her, and Margaret at the end of the row. Dawn took hold of Jane’s arm. “I’m so nervous,” she whispered. Jane understood completely. She could still vividly remember watching Adele perform in school plays, sit- ting powerless in the audience while her child stumbled through her lines, hoping to God that she got through them without fl uffi ng them or forgetting them. No one wanted their child’s fl edgling stage career to end in fl oods of tears. Margaret started coughing uncontrollably. “I’m going to get a glass of water,” she said, quietly getting up from her seat and making her way past the aisles towards the exit, still coughing.

  The first child on stage was a boy whose repartee piece involved reciting divisions of Pi. Jane thought the first division may have had the number three in it, but by the end of the first minute she’d forgotten. Beside her Alfie whispered,

  “What do you think the other kids do to this kid at break time?”

  “Run a mile, if they’ve any sense,” Jane whispered back, noticing for the first time that Alastair had also left his seat. Dawn noticed it too.

  “Where’s he gone?” she asked in a loud whisper. “Iain’s on soon.”

  “Call of nature, Mrs G.” Alfie said. “Must have been that glass of wine he drank.”

  “For heaven’s sake,” Dawn muttered.

  “I could go on for another three hours,” the boy on stage said proudly, and without any hint of irony. “But I’m not allowed to.” Polite, if bewildered, applause marked his exit. A little girl, dressed prettily in a blue dress and black polished shoes, was the next on stage. She sang a song quite nicely. She was followed on stage by brother and sister twins, who performed magic tricks, taking it in turn to be the other’s assistant. For their finale, the girl managed to pull a bouquet of plastic flowers from her brother’s top hat and he managed to find a coin behind her ear. It was during these magic tricks that Alastair reappeared, followed shortly afterwards by Margaret, carrying a bottle of water and no longer coughing.

  At last it was Iain’s turn. The young lad walked proudly onto the stage holding a wicker basket. He placed the basket on the floor, opened it and removed an Adder from the basket. Many in the audience shuddered.

  “There is no reason to be afraid, ladies and gentlemen,” Iain said firmly. “This snake is quite harmless, so long as I don’t let go,” he said, pretending to drop the snake, which actually hissed at this point, causing a woman in the front row to scream briefly, then compose herself.

  “Nearly,” Iain said. “No seriously, ladies and gentlemen, if Sigmund here were to escape and wrap himself around your neck and squeeze and squeeze, he wouldn’t kill you because Sigmund, who is really a girl and not a boy, is a British Adder, not an Anaconda. Also, if Sigmund bit you, it wouldn’t kill you because her poison gland has been removed. Mum wouldn’t let me have her otherwise,” he explained to the amused audience.

  “Because of that, I’m sort of Sigmund’s mum. She’d starve without me, so I always have to remember to feed her. I’d be cross if Mum forgot to feed me and I don’t want to make Sigmund cross, because she’s still a snake with a sharp bite.”

  Jane was amazed at the change in the boy, who commanded his audience through a mixture of confidence in his subject matter, and gentle self-deprecation. While Iain talked on about the various ways of snakes, Jane looked around her. To her right, Dawn was leaning forward in her seat, almost eating her hands. Jane glanced to her left. Margaret and Alastair were staring intently at the stage, their hands in their laps, neither paying the slightest attention to anything other than what was happening on stage. Jane caught Alfie’s eye and he smiled at her. She looked back at the stage.

  “Sigmund and I are now going to step down from the stage,” Iain informed his audience. “We’re going to move around you and anyone who would like to say hello to Sigmund can. I fed her before we came out, so I can be almost sure she won’t bite anyone.”

  Iain allowed Sigmund to pose for photographs, by draping him around the necks of all of those brave enough to be photographed in this way. The queue of people waiting to be photographed with Sigmund, was to Jane, proof of Iain’s new-found popularity. Dawn obviously thought so too.

  “I’m so glad I contacted you,” she said to Jane.

  “I’m not sure I did very much,” she replied. “It was Alfie really.”

  “Oh, I don’t know, Mrs H – I can’t take all the credit,” Alfie said, with a wink.

  “Yes,” gushed Dawn. “If it wasn’t for you, Iain and that damned snake of his would still be locked in his room. I’m not sure it’ll make me more popular with the other mums though.”

  From the back of the school hall, Margaret took a photo of Iain and Sigmund, then one with Dawn, Alastair, Jane and Alfie in it as well, after they dutifully formed into two rows for her. Margaret waved her hand in the air, the photo had been taken. She sent it to Alastair’s phone.

  II

  Jane was dining with her neighbours that evening, but she got home with enough time to check her e-mails before leaving for her neighbour’s house.

  To her amazement, Stanman had replied to her. She knew that if she didn’t open Stanman’s e-mail immediately, she never would.

  ‘Preston!’ he’d written. ‘I couldn’t believe my eyes when I saw your e-mail! Little Jane Preston, alive and well and living not twenty miles down the road. How are you, girl? Widowed you say? Well, I might as well be. My Elsie’s not the same woman I married since the dementia got her. Funny thing you writing out of the blue like that. I’d started to think about you recently, wondering if you were happy, wherever you were. To be frank, after I left to join up, I didn’t give you a second thought. I enjoyed serving my time. After my discharge, I went on holiday to France. I was sitting on a beach in Calais when a redhead walked by wearing a bikini, laughing her head off, and that was it! Wham bam superman. It was my Elsie and she was off to buy ice cream for her and her friend. We were married within a month and I’ve never regretted a day of it. But she doesn’t laugh like that anymore, to be sure. Why don’t we meet for a drink, Preston? There’s a cruiser moored in Greater Flyborough, which sails up and down the River Evening at night. It’s got a bar and a dance floor. What say we give it a try? Show the youngsters there’s still life in us over 60’s!

  Let’s not think of it as a date. Let’s think of it as two old friends meeting up for a drink for old time’s sake. I know it’s sho
rt notice, but what about Saturday night?

  Your Stanman.’

  Jane stared at the e-mail for some time, reading and rereading it, before she picked up the courage to reply to it. When she finally did, it was to accept:

  ‘This Saturday would be perfect, Stan. But please, don’t call me Preston. I’ve been Jane Hetherington, for the last forty years.

  Jane H.’

  She almost had to force herself to press Send.

  “There, you’ve gone,” she said, as e-mail disappeared from her screen and entered the sent e-mail box. She looked at her watch – it was time to join her neighbours for dinner.

  The door was opened by Jack, who greeted her with the words, “There’s something on the News about Mr Kim. They’ve found his body!”

  Jane followed him into the living room where, on the News, a young woman gave an interview. The caption gave her name as Michelle Lawson.

  “Me and Mark were walking Mark’s dog, Max, on the beach when he began barking at something on the beach washed in by the tide. Me and Mark ignored him and carried on walking, but Max refused to leave it alone, however much we shouted at him.

  “All we could see was this dark shape,” Michelle recalled. “We just thought it was some wood or something, but Max wouldn’t leave it alone. The waves kept driving him away, but he kept going back, over and over again, barking and barking. Mark got so fed up with it he went to check out what was going on. He stopped dead in his tracks and yelled, ‘Don’t look ’Chelle!’

  “But I already had and I’ll never forget what I saw. The police told us that ’ad the wind been blowing in the opposite direction, we’d have smelt the remains!”

  “Mr Kim’s body has been washed up locally?” Jane asked Jack.

  This was strange – his family had received a suicide note, written in Mr Kim’s own immaculate handwriting, and posted from South Korea a few days after the car was dragged from the lake, in which Mr Kim had explained that he had a degenerative illness and did not wish to be a burden on his family. He told his family he loved them and hoped they could forgive his actions. He ended his note by begging them to remember him as he was, and to get on with their lives. Jane had broken down in tears when she’d heard about it.