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

by Isabella Muir

  By the time I got home I was regretting having agreed to the meeting, but decided half an hour spent in the company of an oddball wouldn’t be much of a penance if it got me closer to finding Zara.

  The next afternoon, when I arrived at the shop, he was standing outside, looking keen. He was dressed in what could have passed as his Sunday best, with his hair slicked down with Brylcreem and an overdose of aftershave I could smell as I approached. I was still tempted to abandon the whole idea.

  ‘You came. Good. Well, it’s just a walk to the cemetery from here. Are you happy to walk?’ he said.

  We set off at a steady pace and entered the cemetery at the top end, which meant a longish walk downhill to the area containing Joel’s grave. St Martha’s cemetery had expanded over recent years, synonymous with the expansion of the town. The top part, nearest to the little chapel, was flat, with rose bushes and small trees lining the pathways. Then there was a reasonably steep descent to the newer areas, which were more sparse. This lower part looked out over the valley, offering no protection from the prevailing easterly winds, which made it bleak, even on a summer’s day.

  ‘Cemeteries are fascinating places, don’t you think?’ he said, as we walked past a young family visiting one of the graves.

  ‘Well, I…’

  ‘I come here all the time, whenever I have time to spare. There’s so much you can learn from a gravestone.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose so,’ I replied, increasingly doubtful about the purpose of our visit.

  ‘Take a look here, for example, this lady died in childbirth. Do you see, that’s the date she died and right next to her is the grave of her daughter, showing she was born on that very day. Fascinating, don’t you think?’

  ‘So sad,’ I said, hoping Bean couldn’t hear this strange man’s words.

  ‘It’s social history, that’s what it is. See this family grave. Stand just here and you’ll be able to read the words.’ He went to take my arm, but I moved away from him just at the right moment, leaving his hand to wave without purpose.

  ‘Three sons, all died in the same year, probably consumption, or even influenza. There was a time when even the common cold could kill you.’

  ‘Yes, of course. Mr Peters, I don’t mean to hurry you, but you mentioned you had more information about Zara. It’s just I need to get back to make my husband’s tea.’

  ‘Ah, yes, your husband. Well, he’s a lucky man, I only wish I had a lovely wife to make my tea.’

  I was distinctly uncomfortable now and wished I hadn’t agreed to come to the graveyard with him at a time of day when there were few people about.

  ‘Shall we walk down to Joel’s grave? Where you saw Zara?’ I said.

  We walked down past many headstones adorned with fresh flowers, and many more covered in algae, looking sad and unloved. I let him go slightly ahead of me and I could hear him muttering, but couldn’t catch his words.

  ‘Here we are, this is where I saw her,’ he stopped at Joel’s grave and turned to face me. ‘You come and stand here,’ he said and once again reached out to manhandle me into position. I stood back out of his reach.

  ‘It’s okay, I can see what you mean. This is where she stood, when you saw her?’

  ‘Yes, just here.’

  ‘And you were?’

  ‘Over there, by my family,’ he pointed to some headstones about fifty yards away, shaded by a group of newly planted elm trees.

  ‘And it was in the afternoon?’

  ‘Yes, late afternoon, I like coming then, it’s quieter, easier to talk. I tell them everything. I know they can hear me. There’s so much we don’t know about death, it’s not the end, you know. I’m certain of it.’

  ‘And you just saw Zara come to the grave and then leave again?’

  ‘Yes, I looked up and saw her arrive. I watched her for a while, I reckon she was chatting to him. Then she left.’

  ‘That’s all you know? You didn’t see where she went from here?’

  ‘No, she was carrying a big bag, like a holdall. I told you about the bag, didn’t I?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, she put it down on the ground.’

  ‘Nothing else then?’

  ‘There is something, actually.’ As he bent down I realised what he was hoping to find. He put his hand down behind the gravestone and ferreted around for a few moments.

  ‘I don’t understand, it’s not there,’ he said, his forehead creasing with a frown.

  ‘What’s not there?’

  ‘There was a note. A piece of card, I saw her stuff it down behind the gravestone and when she left I came over to see what it was.’

  ‘You took it out? You read it?’

  ‘You think I shouldn’t have, that it was none of my business? Well, you’re right, but like I say, there’s so much to learn from a cemetery. I just looked at it and then I put it back. What I don’t understand is why it’s not here now. It’s been moved, maybe she’s been back, taken it away?’

  ‘Did you tell the police about the note?’

  ‘No, she seemed like a nice girl, I didn’t want to get her into trouble.’

  ‘Why would it get her in trouble?’

  ‘Because of what it said.’

  ‘What did it say?’

  ‘Please forgive me. Just those three words. You do see, don’t you. If I told the police you can imagine what they might think.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Well, it sounds like a confession to me.’

  I was tempted to cancel our newspaper delivery after the cemetery visit. Inevitably, going into the shop to pay the bill was going to invite more questions and conversations with the strange Mr Peters. An alternative was to send Greg every now and then, but the last thing I wanted was for him to get embroiled in it all.

  The more I thought about Zara’s note, the more I worried about her state of mind. I couldn’t imagine why she felt she needed forgiveness. The only way to know more would be to find her.

  I didn’t want my distrust of Mr Peters to cloud my judgement, and was keen to remain objective. Perhaps there was a link between Mr Peters and Zara’s disappearance. Maybe he saw an opportunity to make some money that day in the cemetery. Blackmail is an evil thing, the blackmailer using his power over the vulnerable. Although if that was his intention wouldn’t he have taken the note to prevent anyone else finding it?

  Quiet days in the library van gave me a chance to mull over all that I’d discovered to date. The more information I was gathering about Zara, the more I was getting sidetracked and confused. So far, I’d learned about an ex-boyfriend who was handy with his fists and a strange cemetery dweller who had a fascination with death. Either of them could have given Zara a reason to run away. The only way I would know for sure was to encourage a confession, which was highly unlikely, or to find Zara. So, in reality, I’d travelled several miles in various directions and returned to the beginning.

  Just before packing up for the day on Friday the door of the van opened and in walked Phyllis Frobisher.

  ‘Not too busy?’ she said, glancing down at the books spread out on the counter in front of me.

  ‘It’s lovely to see you. It’s been weeks. What news do you have for me?’

  ‘My garden is free of all weeds and looking perfect, and I’m getting bored. The doctor says boredom is a positive sign, as it means my energy levels are finally returning. Between you and me I don’t think they ever went away, it’s just that my body hadn’t realised it needed to keep up. What’s been happening here? How’s your dad?’

  I hesitated before telling her about Zara, wondering what she might think about it all.

  ‘Still enthralled with Agatha?’ she nodded her head towards the books.

  ‘There’s a reason for it. I’m learning the tricks of the trade.’

  ‘Which trade would that be? Decided to be an author now then? Well, that would make sense, you were always one of my best pupils. Not that I would have told you that at the time, wouldn’t
have wanted you to struggle to fit in your beret,’ she said, with a wink.

  ‘Not writing, detecting,’ I smiled, thinking she might assume I was joking.

  ‘You’re looking for your friend, aren’t you?’ She had always been one step ahead of me.

  ‘Yes, but not getting far. Every approach I take uncovers more questions than answers.’

  ‘I hear the police have a new lead. Did it come from you?’

  ‘No, but I know who has spoken to them. It might be relevant, I can’t decide.’

  ‘Why not leave it to the police, now they’re on the lookout again. I’m assuming they are on the lookout again? And I’m guessing you might need to be taking things a little easier now?’ she gestured towards my expanding waistline. ‘Congratulations in order, I think?’

  ‘Yes. Greg would like to see me put my feet up, but if anything I’m livelier than ever, well at least I’m waking up earlier than I ever have done, so there are more hours in the day than there used to be.’

  ‘Be careful, Janie. Sometimes it’s best not to meddle. I’m sure your friend will find her own way through her problems, whatever they are.’

  Now I had two people advising me to drop the search and only dad encouraging me to carry on. But I’d gone so far now that even without dad’s support I couldn’t let it lie.

  Chapter 23

  Poirot did not answer me for a moment, but at last he said: ‘I did not deceive you, mon ami. At most, I permitted you to deceive yourself.’

  ‘Yes, but why?’

  ‘Well, it is difficult to explain. You see, my friend, you have a nature so honest, and a countenance so transparent, that – enfin, to conceal your feelings is impossible!’

  The Mysterious Affair at Styles - Agatha Christie

  I’ve given a lot of thought to the day Zara left. I’ve thought about the day before and even the week before, to determine if there was anything unusual in her behaviour, anything that could have triggered her decision to leave, apart from the obvious trauma of having to accept a whole year had passed since the death of the man she loved.

  For three or four months before her disappearance she started to show the beginnings of recovery, but before that, since the day Joel died, it was as though she had a critical illness. I felt helpless as I watched her body close down. She didn’t want to eat, she barely drank and even when she was awake she appeared to be asleep, her eyes glazed and her face without expression. I frequently attempted to get her talking about everyday trivia, but the most I would get in response was a nod or shake of her head. Greg suggested I leave her be.

  ‘Everyone reacts to grief differently. We don’t know what it’s like. Let’s hope we never do,’ he said.

  All our grandparents had died before we were old enough to get to know them, so the most Greg had had to deal with was the loss of a hamster when he was about six years old.

  The day my mum left was traumatic, but at least she was still alive. She had recently sent a brief note confirming she’d received my letter about her forthcoming grandchild. It was short and emotionless, much like my relationship with her. I doubted I’d experience much grief if she died, I’d dealt with the loss years ago.

  But in the last few months Zara was with us she gravitated from the closed, quiet period of her grieving to a state of almost permanent agitation. She hardly slept and would pace around the house at all hours. She drank copious cups of coffee, but still barely ate. She had always had a slim figure, but now she was pencil thin and I could imagine her walking out in a strong wind and being blown right over.

  Joel’s parents had overseen the disposal of his studio and flat. They made all the arrangements before returning to their home in Scotland. Once all the legalities had been resolved they arranged for a removal firm to go into the flat and pack everything up.

  They kept in touch with us and suggested Zara might want to check through everything, in case any of her possessions were still in the flat.

  ‘The last thing we want is for her belongings to be swept up, and never seen again,’ Mr Stewart told me. ‘See if you can persuade her, she’ll listen to you.’

  His confidence in me was welcome, but unfortunately misplaced.

  ‘We need to go round to the flat, Zara,’ I told her, ‘you’ll have to come, because I won’t know what’s yours and what’s his.’

  She was resolute, she wasn’t going to enter the flat and nothing I could say would persuade her.

  ‘Just my clothes,’ was all she said. ‘Nothing else.’

  ‘Books, records, photos? Don’t you want some reminders of your time together?’

  ‘Just my clothes,’ she repeated.

  Greg and I went over and filled one of our old suitcases with anything that looked as though it belonged to Zara and the next day the removal men came in and emptied the place.

  Another photographer took over the studio and I suppose a deal was done over Joel’s equipment. I wondered if his dad might have liked to keep some of it, but perhaps the memories were too painful. Such a sad way for a life to end.

  Try as I might, I couldn’t remember anything unusual about the day Zara went missing. I was up quite early and wasn’t surprised to find her in the kitchen already. Most mornings we would exchange a few words, about whether she had managed to sleep, or about the weather. I had been on at her to go out, I was worried she had become almost agoraphobic. On brighter days she would go into the back garden and sit under one of the cherry trees, shading herself from the sun. Her skin was so pale and even her hair had lost its shine. Perhaps I was being too gentle with her, maybe I needed to be firmer, to take her arm and drag her out with me for a walk, or to the shops. Each time I thought about it, I reminded myself I had no idea how grief might affect someone and if it was me, having to deal with losing Greg, then I would probably take to my bed for a year.

  That Thursday was always going to be more difficult than other days. I could imagine her reliving every moment, from the arrival of the police who told her the man she loved was dead, to leaving Joel’s flat and curling up in our spare room. I was never going to stop her replaying those dreadful memories. I found it hard enough to cope with and selfishly I wanted nothing but distraction. It was easier for me to go out with Greg and think about brighter things, blanking out all thoughts of my poor friend left behind with her grief. Perhaps my feelings of guilt were the real reason for my passionate search, maybe it was all about making amends.

  When Zara first went missing we let the police take charge of her search. We weren’t ever kept in the loop about any of the specifics of their investigations. After all, we were only friends. We’d assumed they kept Gabrielle informed, as she was Zara’s immediate next of kin. But as Gabrielle didn’t exactly offer up a hand of friendship we could hardly delve too deep. Any questions we asked her were likely to remain unanswered.

  As the days passed and there was still no news, we decided to take matters into our own hands. We assumed the police had questioned everyone in our immediate neighbourhood, as well as checking with all the local hospitals. The next obvious move would have been to widen the search to the nearby towns.

  I found a recent photo of Zara, a studio portrait she’d taken to give to Joel as a present. She’d told me about the portrait, but swore me to secrecy.

  ‘Do you think he’ll like it?’ she asked me. ‘I mean, do you think it’s strange I’m giving him a photo of me as a present?’

  Zara was never wholly aware of her beauty, which enhanced her attractiveness even more. I told her I thought it was a wonderful idea and Joel would be thrilled.

  Zara gave me one of the smaller versions of her portrait and it was this one I took to a local photographic studio. I asked them if they could enlarge it and use it to make fifty posters. I wrote out the wording for them to add, which was as simple and clear as I could make it:

  Zara Carpenter is missing

  Anyone with information about her whereabouts, please contact Janie Juke, at

  7 Fl
int Close, Tamarisk Bay

  We didn’t have the advantage of a telephone at home, we couldn’t justify the expense. Dad had one installed to help his patients make appointments, but I didn’t want dad to be bothered with what would inevitably be crank calls in the main. If anyone had genuine information, then I prayed they would take the trouble to write a letter, or visit in person.

  Greg helped me circulate the posters. We asked pub landlords and newsagents to put them up in their windows. We visited the central library and pinned one up on their noticeboard. We tried to focus on places where Zara may have been in the past, where she might have made friends or got chatting to people. Realistically anyone who knew Zara would have already known about her disappearance from the coverage in the local paper, so we knew this was a long shot. But the way I saw it we had nothing to lose.

  When Zara left I went through the house and removed any photos or reminders of her, as looking at them on a daily basis was just too distressing. I was certain something bad had happened to her and I couldn’t bear the not knowing. But I kept a few of the posters, rolled up and stored out of the way. If only I’d discovered my new thorough approach to investigating when we did the original poster campaign, I would have had a detailed list of all the places we’d displayed the poster. As it was I had to rely on my memory. Greg would probably remember, but asking him would only set alarm bells ringing and we’d end up arguing.

  We’d blitzed the immediate area, but we hadn’t gone as far as Brightport. The sleepy seaside town had never featured in our lives until that point, which was strange, as it was less than five miles away, to the west of home. If we went out for days we’d go inland, or east. Brightport didn’t have much to offer, apart from the seafront, and Tidehaven seafront was always going to win hands down, with its amusement arcades and chip shops. On the rare occasion we travelled west we caught the train and visited the larger seaside towns further along the coast, bypassing Brightport completely. Looking back, I realised how stupid we’d been to ignore somewhere on our own doorstep.