The Tapestry Bag: A gripping mystery, full of twists and turns (A Janie Juke mystery Book 1)

by Isabella Muir

  Greg wasn’t keen on me driving the mobile library around, which was hopefully more to do with his concern for me than envy. Greg had already passed his driving test by the time I met him. His dad had paid for his lessons and taken him out to practise in their Ford Cortina. Clearly my dad couldn’t do the same for me and I vowed I’d never sit behind a steering wheel. Maybe it was the memory of dad’s accident that coloured my view.

  ‘Why drive when you can cycle? It’s quieter, cheaper and more fun,’ I told Greg when he quizzed me, soon after we’d got together.’

  ‘In the rain?’

  ‘There’s always the bus.’

  ‘Are you scared?’

  ‘Why should I be scared? As far as I can see there’s nothing to it, although it helps if you have a car to start with.’

  Soon after we were married Greg announced he’d be home a bit later than usual and that I should hold off from preparing supper.

  ‘When will we eat then? If you’re going to the pub then I might as well eat on my own and leave yours in the oven.’

  ‘I’m not going to the pub. Trust me and stop asking so many questions,’ was all he said before he left for work.

  Then, at around 6pm, when I was making myself a cuppa and contemplating whether to grab a quick snack, I heard a car horn blaring. The noise was loud and persistent and I wondered if there’d been an incident of some kind.

  Once I was outside I discovered the culprit. Greg was standing proudly beside a pale blue Morris Minor, with the driver’s door open and one hand on the horn.

  ‘Enough,’ I shouted, ‘you’ll have the law on us for disturbing the peace, or possibly car theft. What are you doing?’

  ‘Showing you our new car. Fancy a drive?’

  An hour later and I was ready to take back everything I’d said about cars.

  ‘That was a blast. Is it really ours? Can we afford it?’

  ‘Yes and yes. What’s more I’m going to teach you to drive, starting tomorrow.’

  ‘You’re either brave or stupid.’

  ‘I’ll tell you which after your first lesson.’

  I’m sure even Greg would agree I was a quick learner and once I’d passed my test, driving became one of my favourite pastimes. I guessed that dad had made a generous contribution to our car fund, telling Greg there was no hurry about paying it back. During the week Greg used the car to get to and from work, but at weekends if we went on a jaunt together then I tended to be the driver.

  So, when Phyllis encouraged me to take on the library van, the driving aspect of the job was the least of my worries. Greg, on the other hand, always looked uncertain when he watched me practising my manoeuvres.

  ‘Just remember, this is not our Morris Minor. Don’t take any risks and watch out for buses.’

  ‘I’m hoping the buses will watch out for me. Can I remind you who passed their test first time?’

  I teased Greg when I found out he had taken three attempts to pass his test.

  ‘You were just lucky,’ he said, ‘my examiner didn’t like me, he was in a bad mood. All you had to do was flash your sweet smile and he was a pushover.’

  Once I realised it was a sore subject with him I didn’t mention it again.

  Wiley Avenue is a short drive from our house and the entrance to the builder’s was in between two detached houses. The yard was filled with bricks, sand, cement and various tools and equipment, but it was orderly, with everything neatly stacked and a large broom suitably placed by the door to the portacabin, which I guessed was the office. As we approached, a short, stocky man was loading a small truck with lengths of timber. Greg went over and helped the man lift one of the longest pieces and once it was on the truck he held out his hand.

  ‘Hello, I’m Greg. Are you the owner?’

  ‘That’s me. Thanks for your help lad, much appreciated.’

  ‘I heard there’s a job going, is that right?’

  ‘You’ve heard right. What’s your trade lad?’

  ‘I’m a window cleaner, but I’m keen to learn a real trade, bricklaying, plumbing. I’m a hard worker.’

  ‘Bricklaying’s a fine trade for a strong young lad like you. There’s a lot to learn, if you don’t mind starting at the bottom. Plenty of lifting and carrying, working outside in most weathers, although that’s nothing new for you. Of course, with bricks you’re making something permanent, whether it’s a garden wall or a whole house. Job for life, that’s what it is. Shame my son didn’t recognise it.’

  ‘What do I need to do to apply? Have you had much interest?’

  ‘I’ll get you a form, just jot down a few particulars and drop it back into me. I can see you’re keen, always a good start. I pay a fair wage for a fair day’s work. Three weeks holiday a year and I’ll need you to work every other Saturday. So many youngsters think they’re entitled to money for nothing, as long as they turn up. Well, Mowbray and Son believe in giving our best, that’s why our customers come back to us. I’ve got a good team, they’re all hard workers, but they like a laugh too, as long as it’s only on their tea break.’

  ‘Thanks, Mr Mowbray, I’d be grateful for the opportunity. This is my wife, Janie.’

  ‘Not expecting me to give her a job as well, are you lad?’ Mr Mowbray smiled and held out his hand to shake mine. ‘Nice you’ve come along together though, not many wives would be bothered. ‘Specially since it’s an early start for us builders. Look after her well, I reckon you’ve got a treasure there. And don’t expect her to make your sandwiches for you, either. I make my own, have done my whole working life.’

  ‘Yes, I will, I do,’ Greg said, looking slightly flustered.

  ‘Truth is, Mrs Mowbray doesn’t ever put enough butter in for me,’ he said, winking at us both.

  Greg was almost skipping on the way back to the bus stop.

  ‘What a lovely man,’ I said. ‘He liked you, didn’t he? He’s in my good books already, telling you to make your own lunch. Shame he didn’t suggest you do the ironing too.’

  It didn’t register at first, probably because I was still half asleep, but on the return journey it dawned on me. Mowbray and Son. Not that common a name, surely. For once fate was on my side, or the gods were looking down favourably on me, or both.

  Chapter 9

  ‘Beware! Peril to the detective who says: ‘It is so small – it does not matter. It will not agree. I will forget it.’ That way lies confusion. Everything matters.’

  The Mysterious Affair at Styles - Agatha Christie

  After a few rainy days it appeared all my regulars had spent their evenings reading, because on my next day in the library they all turned up, bringing back their books and wanting to choose new ones. There were so many people in the van at one point that I was going to suggest they formed an orderly queue. In the end, they merged and shuffled around each other and everyone seemed content.

  I hadn’t looked up when the last couple of people came in, as I was busy working out the overdue library fees for Mrs Candy, who was as sweet as her name suggested and rarely managed to bring her books back on time.

  ‘Just three days over this time,’ I told her, as she handed me Alice in Wonderland. ‘I expect you’ve been reading it to your grandchildren? Did they love it?’

  ‘What’s that dear?’ Mrs Candy’s hearing was not what it used to be.

  ‘Three days,’ I said, trying not to disturb the rest of my customers.

  ‘There’s this one too,’ she said, pulling out another book from an inside pocket of her raincoat. ‘I’d forgotten I had it. Do you know, this was the first book I learned to read.’ She handed over a tattered copy of The Wind in the Willows.

  ‘This doesn’t belong to the library, perhaps it’s your own copy?’ I said, pushing the book back at her.

  ‘What’s that dear?’ My patience with my dad’s blindness wasn’t helping me cope with Mrs Candy and her hearing difficulties. While I was mulling over what to do or say next, a male customer approached the desk. I looked up and r
ealised he was the same customer who had suffered a coughing fit when he was last in.

  ‘Ah, Mr…? How can I help?’

  ‘Write it down,’ he said.

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘Write down what you want her to understand. It’ll be quicker and quieter in the long run.’

  ‘Good idea.’ He stood and watched me as I wrote a short note to Mrs Candy and handed it to her. While she read it, I turned back to the gentleman. ‘I think you might have left something behind when you called in last time.’

  ‘No, I don’t think so.’

  ‘Oh, right. It’s just that I found a left luggage ticket and wondered if it might have been yours.’

  ‘No, not mine. I’ll take this, when you’re ready,’ he said, and handed over a Second World War history book by Winston Churchill, together with his library card.

  ‘Certainly, Mr Furness. There you are,’ I said, stamping the book and passing it back to him.

  Mrs Candy had by now put her coins on the counter, picked up her copy of The Wind in the Willows and was walking towards the door.

  ‘All alright?’ I called out to her as she went to leave, before realising I was wasting my time.

  I kept a cardboard box under the counter where I put any forgotten items hoping they will be reclaimed. Over time I had accumulated plenty of interesting objects. There were the inevitable umbrellas, which wouldn’t fit into the box, but which I laid on the floor beside the counter. Since working in the van I had come across two single gloves, one woollen and one leather, a spectacle case, a hatpin and an antique cameo brooch. One of the oddest things to go into my lost property box was a sock. Understandable, possibly, if it had been a pair of socks, but this was a single pink ankle sock, adult size and recently worn. I longed for someone to come and reclaim it so I could discover how it had come to be left in the library without its matching pair. But they never did.

  I pulled the box out from under the counter, glanced again at the luggage ticket and then tucked it inside an envelope for safekeeping and put it back into the box. It was odd that Mr Furness hadn’t missed it, but perhaps I had read too many detective novels and was seeing mysteries around every corner.

  ‘I’ll drop that form in for you, if you like,’ I told Greg later that day.

  ‘Blimey, you’re keen. I haven’t even looked at it yet.’

  ‘You only need to fill in your details, it won’t be complicated. Strike while the iron’s hot and all that jazz. I’m just saying, don’t trust it to the post. I can pop it in before I go to dad’s tomorrow.’

  ‘I’m not doing it tonight. I need time to think about it.’

  ‘About what? You want the job, don’t you? Mr Mowbray seemed like a nice man and he’ll teach you the trade. I should tell you, I’ve been designing our new house. Can we have two bathrooms?’

  ‘You’re crazy, remind me why I married you? Bean will be all grown up before we ever get the money together to build a house. Two bathrooms means twice the hot water. Too expensive. My mum had to make do with washing me in the sink, yours probably did too.’

  ‘Yes, well it’s 1969 and times are a-changing. I’ve also got my eye on a twin tub, so make sure you get those bricks perfect and he might give you a bonus. Do you want some help with the form?’

  I was still rehearsing my opening lines as I walked up to Mowbray’s yard the next morning. Mr Mowbray was out the front loading his truck with tools and materials and when he saw me he raised his hand to wave.

  ‘Morning, lass, another early start for you. How’s that husband of yours? Any more thoughts about the job? He’ll fit in well here, I’m sure of it.’

  ‘Hello there. Thanks, yes. In fact, that’s why I’m here. Greg’s really keen, he’s already completed the form you gave him.’ I handed him the sealed envelope, which he stuffed into his jacket pocket.

  ‘Mowbray and Son?’ I pointed to the sign over the doorway to his makeshift office.

  ‘It was supposed to be. I started the business straight after Owen was born. Thought it’d be grand for him working alongside his dad.’

  ‘Doesn’t he then? Work alongside you, I mean?’

  ‘No, doesn’t like to get his hands dirty. College lad, prefers books to bricks. Left home as soon as he could, rarely comes back.’

  ‘That’s a shame. You must miss him. You and Mrs Mowbray. Is it a long time since you last saw him?’

  ‘Three months and we didn’t hear a peep, not even a postcard. Then he turns up a few days ago just like that, no explanations. Says he needs to stay with us for a while. Seems he’s lost his job. Won’t even talk to his mother about it.’

  ‘Kids, eh,’ I said, feeling stupid, as Owen was about my age. Thankfully his father paid no attention to my inane and inappropriate comment.

  ‘Well my dear, I can’t keep rambling on, I need to get on site, the lads will be waiting for me. Make the most of this weather, you never know when it’s going to change.’

  I was wracking my brain to come up with a way to continue the conversation.

  ‘Sounds like Owen is having a rough time, it can’t be easy to come back when things haven’t worked out as he’d hoped.’

  ‘Needs a good talking to if you ask me. Not that anyone does.’

  ‘Greg and I would be happy to meet him for a drink, if you think it might help?’ I tried to avoid a pleading tone in my voice and kept my fingers firmly crossed behind my back as I spoke.

  ‘That’s kind lass. I’m not sure he needs to be out partying, mind you. Time for him to learn the meaning of a hard day’s work.’

  ‘Well, the offer’s there.’

  As he got into the front of his van I could see my chances vanishing.

  ‘Um, where will we find him, if he did want to join us?’ It was a long shot, but it paid off.

  ‘23 Leighton Street, just round the back of the Dorsetshire Hotel, in the town centre. My wife’s usually home, unless she’s shopping. Owen will probably be asleep, it’s all he’s done since he got home.’

  Greg was right, I was letting the situation get the better of me. I had no idea of the next step, or even if there should be one. There were no guarantees Owen would be prepared to talk to me and even if he did what was I going to say? He’d told us he hadn’t seen Zara for a couple of years. If he’d seen Zara and I together more recently, why would he lie? The more I thought about it, the more convinced I was there was more to Owen Mowbray than was at first apparent.

  Later that day I left dad a little earlier than usual. Today’s patient’s notes didn’t take long to type up and I made the excuse I wanted to cook a special meal for Greg, which I still planned to do. But not before making an attempt at seeing Owen.

  I found the house without difficulty, but was surprised to see a modest Edwardian terraced property. I had visions of some grand and imposing detached building that showed off the skills of Mowbray and Son. Perhaps there was less chance of my dream two-bathroom new build, after all.

  Within seconds of ringing the bell, the door was opened by a buxom woman, her hair pulled back in a bun, with strands of it escaping and framing her flushed face.

  ‘Sorry dear, I’m in the middle of baking,’ she waved two floury hands at me, before wiping them down the front of her even flourier apron.

  ‘Oh, I’m disturbing you. I do apologise. I’m Janie Juke. I was wondering if Owen was around?’

  ‘Pleasure to meet you dear, friend of Owen, are you? Well, that’s lovely. We haven’t met many of his friends. Come on in and I’ll put the kettle on.’ Her voice had a clear Welsh lilt to it.

  She gestured to me to follow her down the narrow hallway into the little kitchen that sat at the back of the house. The kitchen table was covered with baking tins, some filled, others greased and waiting. Wonderful aromas of vanilla and mixed spice emanated from the oven where the next batch of cooking was underway.

  ‘The jam tarts are still warm. You’ve come just in time, you’ll have one with a cup of tea?’

&nb
sp; ‘That’s so kind, thank you. But I don’t want to disturb you.’

  ‘No trouble dear, have a seat. I can call Owen, he’s just having a lie down. He’s not been feeling too good, so he’ll be pleased to see a friendly face.’

  ‘If you’re sure, but no tea for me, thanks. I’ll try one of your delicious tarts, though, if that’s okay?’

  She left the kitchen and standing at the foot of the steep staircase, she shouted up, ‘Owen, someone here to see you’.

  There was no reply and no sound of movement from upstairs. I was beginning to wish I’d never come, then suddenly there he was at the back door.

  ‘I was out the back, mum. Oh, Janie, hello. Sorry, I hadn’t realised you…’

  ‘Your mum has just kindly offered me one of her freshly baked jam tarts. I’ve struck lucky and arrived on the right day.’

  ‘But how did you…?’

  ‘It’s a coincidence really. Greg is thinking of applying for a job at your dad’s yard and one thing led to another. I didn’t realise you were still in town.’

  ‘No, well…’

  ‘Owen is staying with us for a while,’ his mother said, continuing to fill the rest of the baking tins.

  ‘Great, well, I just dropped by. But if you fancy a night out, a drink or something some time,’ I said.

  ‘Yes, sounds good.’

  ‘We live over near Maze Gardens, I’ll jot our address down, shall I? We’re in most nights, you’re welcome to pop round whenever you’re at a loose end.’

  ‘I’ll do that. It’s kind of you, Janie, really.’

  All I needed to worry about now was how to explain it to Greg, when or if Owen dropped by.

  Chapter 10

  ‘Will you repeat to us what you overheard of the quarrel?’

  ‘I really do not remember hearing anything.’

  ‘Do you mean to say you did not hear voices?’

  ‘Oh, yes, I heard the voices, but I did not hear what they said.’

  The Mysterious Affair at Styles - Agatha Christie