by Hannah Howe
We started the journey in silence. As we travelled west, along the M4, the weather began to clear. We followed the ribbon of tail lights as people flooded out of the city, heading for their homes and families, seeking to place their work troubles behind them for the weekend.
Alan was a steady driver and the soothing, gentle hum of the car eased some of my anxiety. I reclined in the passenger’s seat, admired the leather and woodwork of the car’s interior, ran an eye over the bank of switches on the dashboard and reflected that this was luxury, combining the elegance of a Shakespearian sonnet with the silence of a library.
As we travelled through the Vale of Glamorgan, Alan switched on the CD player and the opening notes to Genesis’, A Trick of the Tail filled the car.
“Do you like this?” he asked while glancing over towards me.
I nodded. “It’s from my favourite musical era, the 1960s and 1970s.”
“Uh-huh. I notice that most of your cultural references and likes date from before you were born.”
That statement was true. My favourite bands, music, films, books, even television programmes all pre-dated the 1980s. “Is there a psychological reason for that?” I asked.
“Probably,” he smiled.
“Are you going to tell me what it is?” I mumbled fretfully.
“Do you want me to?”
I shook my head. If Alan started to explore the dark canyons of my mind, goodness knows what he’d find in there. “Not now,” I frowned, my gaze fixed on the windscreen and the road ahead.
Track one, ‘Dance on a Volcano’ had finished and we were into the chorus of track two, ‘Entangled’...sometimes entangled in your own dreams...tell me about it.
Not long after the final notes of ‘Los Endos’ had faded we arrived at Alan’s cottage on the Gower Peninsula. The Gower, rightly, is regarded as a place of outstanding natural beauty, and even though a sea mist was rolling in and the cottage was in darkness, its thatched roof, white stone walls and rose garden transported you back to a simpler, less frenetic, time.
“You’re right,” I smiled while walking with Alan through the rose garden, “it is beautiful here.”
“I told you, didn’t I?” He placed an arm around my shoulders and gave me a hug. “I try to get here at least once a month, more often in the summer. Alis is less inclined to join me now; she would rather be with her teenage friends, which is how it should be.”
Alan opened the cottage door and we entered the building. I don’t know why, but as soon as I set foot over the threshold, all my old doubts returned. It’s crazy, I know, but I felt on the brink of tears.
“Here we are. You can have Alis’ room.”
Alan was leading me towards his daughter’s bedroom, his voice clear and confident, rightly expressing pride in his country home, yet I found my mind wandering back to my mother, back to Dan...
“The phone’s over there. The bathroom’s over there. And the kitchen’s through there, and that’s where I’m heading now. You’re a vegetarian, right.”
“Right.”
“So I thought I’d prepare a vegetable gratin...some butternut squash, leeks, cabbage, Red Leicester, Cheddar and a soupcon of Dijon mustard...How does that sound?”
My heart started to pound, my eyes lost their focus, my head started to swim, my chest felt tight...I couldn’t breathe...I ran from the cottage, into the rose garden.
I’m not sure how long I stood there, with my hands gripping the garden gate, but when I turned I found Alan at my side, concern etched on his face, a glucose drink in his hand.
“Panic attack,” Alan said. He opened the glucose drink and handed the bottle to me. “Here, sip this, the glucose will help.”
With unsteady hands, I took the bottle from him and placed it to my lips. I took a sip, then a gulp, then let out a long, weary sigh. “I’m sorry, Alan. I can’t do this.” Instinctively, my eyes went to his hands. Were his fingers curling into a fist? Was he going to thump me? I looked up into his eyes and asked, “Are you angry with me?”
He shook his head, then offered me a wan smile. “I’m upset because you’re upset. I’m disappointed because I was looking forward to spending the weekend with you. Am I angry? I’m angry with myself for dragging you here, for making you run before you can walk. I should have realised that you need more time to gather your thoughts, to work through the emotions of the distant past and your recent past. It was selfish of me to bring you here. I regret that, but nothing else.”
I stared at my shoes. The panic attack had faded, I could breathe again and I felt a sense of relief. I also felt a sense of embarrassment, a sense of letting Alan and myself down. “You’re a very tolerant and patient man.”
“I’ve waited seven years, since Elin died, to meet the right woman. What’s a few more days, or weeks?” Alan took hold of my hand. Then he put an arm around my shoulders. “You’re shivering. Come inside. We’ll talk, then I’ll drive you home.”
Inside the cottage, I sat on a sofa in front of a stone fireplace. The fireplace had been converted to a gas fire and Alan flicked a switch, giving the fire a flame. Its warmth soon spread throughout the room, helping to ease my mind and relax my body. As my senses returned, I found that I was becoming increasingly angry with myself.
“I’ve ruined everything,” I said. “I knew I would.”
“Stop being so hard on yourself, Sam.”
“Dan said I’m damaged goods. Even Sweets thinks I’ve got issues.”
“And what do you think?” Alan asked solicitously.
Somehow, I managed to raise my head and look into Alan’s eyes. “I have problems building relationships,” I stated truthfully.
“This is understandable, given your past.”
“Sweets said maybe you could help me.”
“Professionally?” Alan frowned.
I nodded, my eyes returning to my lap. Even though I didn’t like the idea, maybe the time had come to allow someone to wander through the dark canyons of my mind.
“Not possible,” Alan replied. “I love you. It would not be ethical. However, I can recommend another psychologist, a woman, if you prefer.”
“No.” I shook my head decisively. “I couldn’t talk about myself to anyone else but you.”
“Okay,” he conceded. “Maybe we could talk in an informal capacity, as friends, when we meet up.”
“Would that work?”
Alan pursed his lips. He gazed at the artificial coal and logs of the gas fire. “We might touch on some raw nerves. I might ask some awkward questions. You might resent me.”
I could understand and accept that. It was a risk, but one I had to take. “I’d like to try.”
“Give me a couple of days and I’ll arrange dinner at my place. You can meet Alis as well.”
I nodded. Talking about my past with Alan was a risk; it could make or break our relationship. But I had to do something; I couldn’t continue like this.
“This weekend changes nothing,” Alan stated while squatting on his haunches in front of me. He reached out and placed his left hand over my left hand. “I still love you, Sam.”
I squeezed his fingers, then gave him a painful smile. “Dan said that. Often. His words were usually a prelude to a punch in the face.”
“Do you think I’ll hurt you?”
“I think you’re a good man.”
“But there is a doubt in the back of your mind.”
“Yeah,” I admitted. My throat was dry, my voice, faint. Suddenly the room felt very warm and I had to fan myself, to ward off the threat of hyperventilation. “Are you offended?”
“Of course not. You’ve told me your life story. I understand your fears. Your emotions are natural and nothing to be ashamed of.”
“So, you don’t think I’m a fruitcake?”
Alan laughed, a genuine chuckle despite the tension of the moment. “I think you’re a wonderful, beautiful woman, a beautiful diamond. You just need a bit of polishing to make you sparkle. You’ve capture
d my heart, and beyond that words are superfluous.”
He opened his arms and I accepted his embrace. We hugged as friends hug, with warmth, but without passion. I allowed my head to rest against his shoulder while he ran his fingers through my long, auburn hair. I glanced up into his eyes and noticed that he was staring, somewhat vacantly, towards the fireplace and a brass gift box, a memento from the First World War, which was positioned on the stone mantelpiece. I wondered where his thoughts were taking him, to his late wife, to his daughter or to me, and the obstacles I’d set before him. I was in need of reassurance, that was plain to see, but it occurred to me that maybe he was in need of reassurance too.
While caressing his hand, I whispered, “I do like you, Alan. I like you a lot.”
He raised his hand and placed a finger under my chin, tilting my head up so that I gazed into his eyes. In turn, he gazed into my eyes and I could see that he was back with me. He sighed, “See yourself as I do, Sam. Then maybe you’ll learn to love me.”
Chapter Three
We returned to Cardiff, I picked up my Mini and drove to my flat. There, I took two paracetamol to clear my head and went to bed. I spent the weekend alone, brooding. Deep down I knew that Alan was a good man, but no matter how hard I tried, I could not find it within myself to trust him, to trust myself with my emotions. And the nagging thought persisted that I was trying his patience and that he would abandon me before I could resolve my issues. If that happened it would confirm my fears that I was not cut out for a serious relationship and that the only option was to wander through life alone.
On Monday morning, I returned to my office, which was a relief. In my office, I was Sam the enquiry agent, someone who had the respect of her peers. At my office, I left my emotional baggage at the door and focused on my job. And without wishing to sound arrogant or conceited, the testimonials from my clients stated that I was a good enquiry agent.
I opened my office door to discover that Marlowe had brought in a dead mouse; he always does that when I’m away from the office for any length of time, though he’d obviously endured a barren patch when I’d been a mystery guest at the hotel. While feeling a twinge of pity for the mouse, I picked him up by his tail, squeezed the end of my nose with my free hand, and deposited the poor creature in the pedal bin.
Thankfully, the press interest over Lady Diamond had calmed down. A footballer’s convoluted sex life was now dominating the front pages. Also, there were fewer references to Lady Diamond on my answering machine; the world was turning, we were moving on; slowly, we were making progress.
I was staring at a blank computer screen, wondering if I should remove my Smith and Wesson .32 from my desk drawer and put a bullet in the computer to end its misery, when a man walked into my office. Standing around six foot tall, and as slim as a rake, he was dressed in brogues, a tweed suit, a spotted bow tie and a striped shirt, a combination that threatened to induce a migraine. His pate was bald with a corona of closely cropped grey hair, which contrasted with his dark, bushy eyebrows. His eyes were blue and partially hidden behind half-moon spectacles. His face was clean-shaven, and his scholarly air reminded me of a Victorian schoolmaster, a schoolmaster who would punish you if you were naughty, but praise you if you did well.
Automatically, I tidied the items on my desk, the items within easy reach, smiled, and asked primly, “Do you want to hire me?”
The schoolmaster frowned. He glanced around my office with glazed eyes, as though doubting that a twenty-first century woman could work out of a nineteenth century office. “You’re Sam Smith?” he enquired.
I nodded, aware that my smile had frozen on my face.
“I guess...I guess I was expecting someone else, someone more...”
“Impressive looking?” My smile dropped to my shoes, to be replaced by a scowl.
“In truth, yes,” he conceded.
“Well, sorry,” I shrugged, “this is who I am and all I am.”
“I didn’t mean to offend you and I apologise if I did.” The schoolmaster shuffled his feet, displaying his discomfort. Then he swooped and sat on my client’s chair. “I’ve been reading about you in the press,” he continued, his tone earnest, enthralled. “You did an exceptional job uncovering all that filth at Mansetree House. I’m very impressed.”
Again, I shrugged my left shoulder. “Digging in the dirt is my business.”
“Quite,” he smiled. “But even so, you’re not what I expected.”
I sat back in my faux-leather chair and returned his smile. There was something of the eccentric about this man and I found myself warming to him. “What did you expect?” I asked.
“Someone less feminine, someone harder-edged, someone more forthright and aggressive.”
“Quiet people can’t succeed, is that what you’re saying?”
“Clearly, Miss Smith, whatever your personality, whatever your looks, whatever goes on inside your head, you can succeed, as you have recently demonstrated.”
“So,” I swivelled in my chair, moving gently from side to side, noting, out of the corner of my eye, that my computer had opened the appropriate file and was winking for my attention, “would you like to hire me?”
“I believe I would.” The schoolmaster leaned forward, placing bony elbows on emaciated thighs. He smiled somewhat sheepishly while peering at me from over the top of his half-moon spectacles. “May I discuss my situation with you?”
I nodded, then reached for a pen and a notepad. “May I take notes?”
My client nodded in turn, then he regaled me with his story: “My name is Henry Chancellor. I am a professor of astronomy, at the university in Cardiff. I am married to Dr Ruth Carey. Ruth is a psychiatrist in private practice. I am fifteen years older than Ruth. We met when she was a student at Oxford and I was a visiting lecturer. Our relationship developed slowly and we married after Ruth had qualified as a psychiatrist. As you can see, Ruth kept her maiden name. We have no children, by choice, Ruth’s choice. She is career-driven and very motivated. Sometimes she can be brusque and her manner does not always ingratiate her to people. Nevertheless, I loved her when we married and I still do. I would like to hire you, Miss Smith, to discover who is threatening my wife.”
“What sort of threats?”
“Poison pen letters, you might call them.”
I tilted my head to my right, swept my hair from out of my eyes and made a note on my notepad. “Do you have an example of these threats?” I asked.
Professor Chancellor shook his head. He puckered his lips then gazed at me with sad eyes. “My wife destroyed the letters, all of them. She is not taking the threats seriously.”
“But you are.”
He nodded. “Most definitely. Please discover who is sending these letters, Miss Smith. I want you to make a full report.”
I opened a new file on my computer and named it ‘Professor Henry Chancellor’. Then I typed in Professor Chancellor’s basic request and his desired outcome.
“Are the police involved?” I asked, my fingers poised over my computer keyboard. I had no idea why, but if I kept the computer active, it seemed to respond. However, if I paused and ignored it for over a minute it would go into meltdown. Of course, the solution was obvious – buy a new computer. As ever, there was an obstacle to that simple outcome – a lack of ready funds.
“No police,” Professor Chancellor replied, “my wife insists.”
“Any idea who is behind the threats?”
He shook his head and once again peered at me with sad eyes. “None whatsoever.”
“Any idea why she’s dismissing the threats?”
He shrugged his lean shoulders. “A crank, Ruth says; someone with a damaged mind.”
I raised an eyebrow and made a note, on the computer file and in my notebook, just in case the computer decided to take its own life when I wasn’t looking. “Someone with a damaged mind...one of her patients?” I asked.
“Ruth refuses to discuss the subject, so I am as wise as you are.”
Professor Chancellor adjusted his bow tie. He craned his long neck, as though to relieve a knot of tension. Clearly, he was concerned about his wife and the poison pen letters. Equally, I was puzzled by her attitude – if someone, even a crank, threatened me, I would take it seriously. To dismiss, even to destroy, the letters took casualness to the extreme. “Would you care to meet my wife?” Professor Chancellor asked, breaking my reverie.
“I would,” I smiled.
“Here is my card.” Professor Chancellor removed his wallet from his trouser pocket. From the leather wallet, he produced a dog-eared business card and placed it on my desk. “Kindly call at our home, at 7 p.m. this evening; is that convenient for you?”
“I’ll be there,” I said, noting the address printed on the card.
“It has been a pleasure to meet you, Miss Smith.” Professor Chancellor stood. He inclined his head slightly, offering me a polite bow. “I trust that you will get to the bottom of this matter and resolve it amicably.”
“Ask anyone in the private eye game and they’ll tell you that once I get my teeth into something I never let go.”
He nodded, as if satisfied. “I sense that people underestimate you, Miss Smith. And I sense that that is their undoing.”
And with those thoughtful words hanging in the air, Henry Chancellor left my office.
After making further notes on my notepad, I returned to my troublesome computer. Insurance, maybe I could get Marlowe to pee on the computer and claim it on my insurance. It was a thought.
Chapter Four
Henry Chancellor and Ruth Carey lived outside the city, to the south, in the picturesque village of Cosmeston, a village surrounded by over two hundred acres of lakes, woodlands and meadows. Furthermore, within the Country Park you can find Cosmeston Medieval Village complete with costumed villagers, who work the land and tend the livestock, as people did in the Middle Ages.
I suspected that Henry Chancellor would be a stickler for time, so I made sure that I arrived at his house before the appointed hour of 7 p.m. I parked my Mini on a dirt track, off a country road, then walked up the drive, my eyes admiring the impressive building that Henry Chancellor called home.