Jane Hetherington's Adventures In Detection

by Nina Jon

  “That clot Duigan most likely put his foot in his mouth again,” Felix said. “It was a bit unorthodox him going to see them, but we all like the old biddies, and no one wanted them to learn of our plans from a letter. He meant well, but let’s face it, he has a blunt way of putting things. I’m sure they can be persuaded to go quietly.”

  “I’m not so sure, Felix,” Jane said. “I really think you’ve got a fight on your hands over this one.”

  “Mirabella and I will go and see them tomorrow and gently explain how much better it would be for them to swap their drafty old home for a nice double-glazed bungalow. We’ll see what the old Dawson-Jones charm does,” he said.

  Mirabella peered imperiously at him: . “What do you mean Mirabella and I? I’m not helping you persuade three dear old ladies to leave the very house they were born in, so you can avoid unpleasantness.”

  “It’s for their own good,” Felix said, with as much authority as he could manage. “That wool shop of theirs can’t earn them any money. The house is falling down around them, they can barely afford to heat it, let alone maintain it. They only live in a few rooms as it is. If they get any more infirm, they won’t be able to live there at all.”

  “Do you remember that flat we lived in just after we married? You were still sorting out your divorce, and I was still training. It was tiny and freezing cold. It had no hot water for days on end, it was damp, and the landlord wouldn’t even allow us to use an electric fire because it was too expensive. People thought we were mad to stay there for as long as we did, but we loved it because it was our first home.”

  “I think you may be looking back on things through rose-tinted spectacles, my sweet. We stayed there because we couldn’t afford to live anywhere else. Neither of us would ever wish to live there again. Not to mention we’re not touching ninety. The Bailey sisters won’t want to return to that wool shop of theirs again once they’ve lived somewhere else.”

  “A few more mod cons, is all that place needs. They’re not going to live forever. Either one of them will die, or their health will deteriorate to such an extent that they will have to move out anyway. Couldn’t the redevelopment wait a few years?” Mirabella said.

  “The market needs redevelopment now. Trade is declining. More and more people are driving out of town to do their shopping. We have a developer interested in building a row of modern shop units where the wool shop is. We can fit twice as many units in there, as are there at present. It would transform the square. The ladies can put their wool shop in there if they want to,” he said, clearly beginning to feel very beleaguered.

  “They wouldn’t earn enough money to pay the rent, Felix and you know it,” Jane said gently.

  “Well, they can’t stay where they are,” he said. “The council is committed to this.”

  “Isn’t the building too old to knock down? Isn’t it protected?” Jane enquired.

  Felix shook his head. “It’s old certainly, maybe Victorian, but not old enough or special enough to make it worth preserving.”

  “Will you physically carry them out, Felix?” Mirabella asked. “They’re regular members of my congregation. We’ve eaten Sunday lunch at their house, and they at ours.”

  “It won’t come to that. As I keep saying, I’m sure they can be persuaded to move. After lunch, I’ll go straight round to the wool shop to a speak to them myself. If I’d gone originally instead of Duigan, all of this could have been avoided.” He moved to top up the drinks with the words, “I remain confident of a constructive result.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Spinsters on the Warpath!

  Felix’s confidence in his powers of persuasion grew stronger as he walked towards the wool shop, but evaporated the instant Nellie Bailey opened the door to him, saw him standing there, and shrieked, “Lettice! Dotty! Felix Dawson-Jones has come for our home!”

  “No I haven’t,” he tried to explain, but his words were in vain.

  Dotty hurried to her sister’s side. Clearly infuriated by Felix’s presence on their doorstep, the two sisters stood side-by-side, their arms folded across their chests, blocking the doorway. “You’re not taking our home, Felix Dawson-Jones,” Nellie said to him, waving her tiny fist under his chin, something she had to stand on her tip toes to achieve.

  “We’ll give you good money for it – you can get somewhere much nicer. If you’ll allow me in, I can show you some pictures of some lovely places where you could live.”

  “We live here,” Dotty said. Neither she nor her sister moved an inch. His continued presence didn’t seem to be doing anything other than annoying and galvanising them further.

  “Here let me show you,” he said, squatting down to open his briefcase. “I don’t suppose I could step inside?”

  “You suppose right, Felix Dawson-Jones,” Nellie said, rather terrifyingly for a frail, diminutive woman in her late eighties, he thought.

  Felix pulled out some of the shiny new brochures from his briefcase, only to hear something above him. He looked up to discover the minute Lettice leaning out of one of the upstairs windows, holding a heavy jug she’d balanced on the windowsill.

  “If you don’t leave our premises I’ll pour this jug of water over your head, I swear I will,” she said.

  Felix backed away, his hands in the air. He was more concerned about the jug hitting him on the head than its contents. A full jug of water was probably heavier than Lettice.

  “My dear Lett …” he stopped himself. Was it Lettice, he wondered, or was that the one on the right? Or was that Nellie? Or Dotty? He suddenly realised he couldn’t be sure who was who. In fact, he couldn’t actually tell the sisters apart. He wondered if he’d ever actually been able to. Had he been calling each by the wrong name, all these years?

  “My dear, Miss Bailey,” he said. “Please see reason.”

  His words fell on deaf ears. The front door shut in his face.

  “And your wife such a lovely woman too! You don’t deserve her!” Dotty shouted through the letterbox.

  No sooner had she finished her tirade, than water cascaded from the jug. Felix jumped out of the way. He looked up to see the window slam shut, and down to the ground to see a pool of water running towards his feet.

  Felix moved to the middle of the square and looked back at the shop. His belief that a constructive result could easily be achieved had clearly been misplaced. From now on in, he realised bitterly, the ladies and the council were mired in the bureaucracy that was a disputed planning application – in other words, they were at war.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The Search for the Poison Pen Pal

  Roz lived in a town called Marlowe-on-the-Water. She’d made the small town her home many years earlier, thinking, that there, she could safely disappear into the bustle of small-town life, her past airbrushed away forever. Jane could see why. While Greater Flyborough was a large, frenetic, transient port town, Marlowe-on-the Water was a quiet, fairly affluent town, whose residents settled for life. How uncanny for two unconnected people from Greater Flyborough to settle in Marlowe, Jane thought, but they had.

  When Jane arrived in Marlowe, few were about. The letter writer persecuting Roz clearly considered himself (Jane, like Roz, had a hunch the writer was a man) to be doing the Lord’s work and Jane decided to start with a visit to the town’s local churches. Two churches served the parish of Marlowe on the Water – the Church of St. Martins and the Church of St. Magdalene. Jane went first to the closer of the two, the church of St. Martins.

  The unassuming eighteenth century church overlooked a river. A footpath, cut through untended graves, led to its front door, and a circular tower stood at its west end. Jane pushed open its large wooden door, stepped inside and found herself alone in the small church. Biblical tapestries hung on its whitewashed walls. Arched stone frames surrounded unadorned aisle windows. Wooden pews, with hymn books laid out, lined the nave.

  She walked its length and back again, her footsteps caught in the silence. Once back at
the door, she picked up a copy of the Parish News, and put it into her hand bag, hoping it might contain a name leading her to the letter writer. She stopped to study the announcements covering the notice board: the dates of services, flower rosters, details of jumble sales, Bible reading classes, knitting groups, fetes and afternoons devoted to contemplative prayer. Jane read each notice carefully, but none bore any similarity, in any way, to the letters received by poor Roz. Nevertheless, she made a note of any names, including the names of the churchwarden and ladies on the flower roster.

  A short walk took her to St. Magdalenes. The patrons of the much larger St. Magdalenes must have been wealthier than those of St. Martins, Jane thought, surrounded by ornate carvings, stained windows, tracery panelling, gold-plated altars, marble memorial plaques, and tapestries edged with gold thread. She took a few moments to gaze around the church, but for all its splendour, Jane preferred the simplicity of St Martins.

  As before, she walked the length of the Church, this time studying the inscriptions of the dead buried underneath the flagstone floor. She stopped to look up at a stained glass window bearing the image of a long dead patron – Augustus, Earl of Marlowe, who departed this earth on the 29th July in the year of our Lord 1598, aged forty-eight. Jane stared at the image of the man captured in glass and saw in his eyes, a mixture of power and zealotry. She could well imagine Augustus, Earl of Marlowe, ordering fallen women to be whipped six times around the churchyard before being driven out of the parish for good. Jane couldn’t help wondering whether the person writing to Roz was a direct descendant of Augustus. She made a note of all names on the church notice board, as she’d done in St Martins, and left to stroll around Marlowe.

  Being situated in hiker country, Marlowe had more than its fair share of outdoor shops and bed and breakfasts. The start of a very famous walk was a few minutes out of town, and as the morning wore on, Jane noticed many hikers and cyclists, carrying heavy rucksacks and wearing muddy, thick walking boots. She walked past a young couple sat in a café, demolishing a cooked breakfast, the remains of two bowls of porridge by their side. Two racing bikes, leaning up against the wall behind them, gave the clue as to how they remained enviously thin. Oh, to be so young and energetic, she thought wistfully, before turning her mind back to the matter in hand.

  The cyclists and walkers made her wonder whether the letter writer might have been a holidaymaker who’d come across a photograph of Roz announcing her candidature? No, she realised, that could not be it. The letters suggested the sender might become one of Roz’s constituents were she elected. An alternative scenario suggested itself. Could the sender of the letters be one of the other candidates in the election, or an overzealous campaign assistant, who’d come across the minefield which was Roz’s past (although from what source, she couldn’t for the moment imagine) and decided to use it against her?

  She wondered if this might be a bit excessive for a local election, but then remembered Felix Dawson-Jones saying one day, “local politics are every bit as Machiavellian and underhand as any national election, Jane, believe me.” He’d told her of a parish election where someone accused a rival candidate of once beating him up at primary school and stealing his lunch money – something the other candidate had felt the need to strenuously deny. “These council elections can get very heated,” he’d said. “I’ve seen fist fights.”

  Jane decided this idea was as good a place to start as any. Now she came to think about it, she realised she hadn’t asked which party Roz was running as a candidate for. She was surprised to discover it was the Conservative Party.

  “I’ve always been a supporter,” Roz said, after Jane telephoned her and ran her theory passed her. “It makes sense. But I don’t know how they could have found out. I’ve never said anything to anyone.”

  “Often these things appear to be unfathomable, but when looked at carefully, they are in fact, quite straightforward,” Jane replied.

  It transpired only two other candidates were running against Roz: the Liberal Democrat Party candidate and the Green Party candidate. “The Labour Party didn’t file their return on time.” Roz said. “I think they did it deliberately. They know they’d lose their deposit if they fielded a candidate here.”

  Jane decided to visit the Liberal Democrat candidate first at their campaign headquarters, a small two-roomed office in a portacabin next to a fish and chip shop. Jane thought the candidate herself to be a perfectly charming, if a slightly scruffy woman. Her campaign team consisted of a husband and teenage daughter. Jane put the couple in their forties, which meant they would have been children when Roz was working as a prostitute. Jane introduced herself as a local resident, giving a name and address imparted to her by Roz of a local resident with the postal vote who Roz knew spent most of her time in London, and pretended to be concerned with a small incident with a neighbour over a shared car parking space.

  “I really think there should be more parking spaces,” Jane said, “then there wouldn’t be all these arguments,” she added, getting into her part. The two women sat at a small table. While Jane spoke, the Liberal Democrat candidate took notes of Jane’s concerns. A photocopier whirred continuously behind them, whilst at another table, the candidate’s husband and daughter folded leaflet after leaflet, ready for an evening delivery.

  “I agree there isn’t anything like enough parking,” the candidate agreed. “I intend to raise this as an issue at the first council meeting, should I be elected.”

  “I do hope so,” Jane said, trying to sound irritated. “I raised this issue with the Conservative candidate but she really wasn’t interested at all.”

  “Really?” the Liberal Democrat candidate asked. She shot a look at a husband, which suggested she found this comment surprising. He merely shrugged back. “Although I’m running against her, personally, I’m surprised to hear you say that.”

  “May I ask why?”

  “She and her campaign team come across as hard-working and conscientious,” the candidate said.

  “I think it’s because she’s not local born and bred.”

  “Isn’t she?” the candidate said. “I thought she was, to be honest, but I suppose now you mention it, the accent isn’t from around here.”

  “Are you?” Jane asked.

  “We both are,” her husband said, from across the room. “Born and bred and raised within a gnats breath of here.”

  “Are your parents still alive?” she asked.

  “Unfortunately both our sets of parents are dead,” the candidate said. Her husband put down the pamphlet he’d been folding and walked over to his wife to ask Jane why she’d asked the question.

  “I just wondered if I knew them, that’s all,” Jane said. “May I ask what church you regularly attend? I do believe such things are important.”

  Jane could tell from the look on all three of their faces, and the awkward silence which followed, that the answer was none.

  “I’m not sure that any of your business,” the candidate’s husband eventually said.

  She made her excuses and left. From there she made her way to the Green Party’s headquarters. These were located above a vegan restaurant. Jane hesitated by the door. Everything on the restaurant menu sounded so delicious, and the smell emanating from it was so enticing, that Jane decided to stop for lunch before visiting the candidate.

  When Jane finally met the Green Party’s candidate, she found a casually dressed young man, every bit as perfectly mannered and as intense as she’d expected him to be. He even had a beard. He was young enough to be Roz’s grandson, as was most of the team supporting his campaign, judging by the youngsters who kept coming in and out of the room.

  When she repeated her tale of the on-going argument she was supposedly having with her next-door neighbour over a shared parking space, the Green Party’s candidate response was simple.

  “If there were more car parking spaces there would be more cars. As a member of the Green Party, I wish to discourage car use and en
courage other forms of transport such as public transport, which I’m committed to improving.”

  “That’s all very well, but at my age, when I have heavy shopping bags, unless a bus stops outside my house…” Jane said, getting a little too much into character. She stopped herself, remembering the reason for her visit. “Do you know the Conservative candidate?”

  “I’ve seen her around campaigning, but not had the chance to speak to her so far.”

  “Do you find her a likeable woman?” Jane asked.

  “I’m sure she’s as likeable as any Tory,” he said with a grin. “Not that I ever get close enough to a Tory to know one way or the other.”

  “Do you mind me asking which church you regularly attend?” she asked for the second time that morning.

  This time, the look she got was not the embarrassed, bewildered one she’d received when she’d asked the same question earlier, but a rather patronising one. It was clear from the look on the young man’s face that he thought Jane a silly, middle-class snob.

  “I am an atheist,” was the answer. “Not that it’s any of your business.”

  “Oh, I see. What do your parents think of that, young man?” she asked, as disapprovingly as she could manage.

  “They’re staunch non-believers too.”

  “We all are,” a young man said, having just walked into the room. “We don’t believe in God or motorcars,” he said, in a tone suggesting his comment wasn’t said entirely in jest.

  “I am very concerned that my area may turn into a beat for local prostitutes,” Jane said.

  “The Green Party support legalised brothels to protect both the women and local residents,” was the pointedly non-judgemental reply.

  “I see. Thank you for your time. I’ll show myself out,” she said, getting to her feet and walking over to the door. She left the room feeling frustrated. She was no further forward to finding the person she was looking for than she had been when she left home that morning.