The Book of Extraordinary Amateur Sleuth and Private Eye Stories

by Maxim Jakubowski

  It was no good. However hard he tried, he couldn’t get Mary out of his mind. He left the food on the coffee table and reached into his work bag for the tattered book he didn’t want. Our Evie. Passing the delicate volume from hand to hand, reading the blurb, the acknowledgments. Almost seventy years after its publication date, it was old and worn at the edges, initially badly bound and paying the price now, as several pages threatened to drop out when he opened it. He flicked through, skimming the over-explanatory tale that he couldn’t be bothered with…but after reading the first page, he was hooked.

  The post-war world was so different from the way Luke had grown up, and the story of the mother who’d tried to bring Evie back to life in the only way possible touched him. Penned by Clara McGrath as she wallowed in confused and bitter grief, the frustration of her fight against the police stonewalling was palpable. Sadness floated from every page. Of course, the accusation was pure speculation on Clara’s part, for Evie had never been found. But Luke understood the desperation for an answer, good or bad.

  The first few chapters, short and concise, were about Evie’s early years, how she’d been funny and sweet, generous to a fault, trusting and loving. She sounded like the perfect child. Luke sipped his beer as the story of Evie and Timothy’s romance unfolded, how they met at a dance when he returned from service in Europe after the war.

  She’d been nineteen, he twenty-one, and for both it had been love at first sight. They soon became betrothed and were excited about the wedding, but fate stepped in when she found she was pregnant. His mother, Mrs. Stanley, took charge, insisting Evie move to the house she shared with her son, despite her unreasonable hatred for both the Irish girl and the Irish in general. It didn’t matter about the wedding; Mrs. Stanley would tell people they had married in London, not willing to admit the girl’s Celtic background despite her strong accent. She gave Timothy an inherited gold ring for his fiancée’s finger to solidify the lie.

  Happy for the offer of support, and pleased that she wouldn’t be an outcast in the village for being the unmarried mother she was about to become, Evie packed her few belongings and moved in.

  Disturbingly protective, Timothy’s mother made Evie’s life a living hell for taking her son away from her, as she saw it. Shy and under constant threat of being outed as a single mother in the days when it was unacceptable, Evie had toed the line and done as she was told. But after the child was born, a girl, she became more demanding, insisting that they find a place to live away from her partner’s unpleasant family. But the unhealthily close mother-son relationship took precedence and Timothy refused, insisting there was no reason to uproot from a perfectly good and large home. Plus, his mother had been lonely since her husband died in the war.

  Evie had no choice: they would raise the child there.

  At first, she eagerly told anybody who’d listen about the baby, patting her bump, talking to it, but soon her almost-mother-in-law berated her for being crude. Such unfortunate bulges were to be hidden from sight under clever clothing. Pregnancy was a condition to be ashamed of, not to glorify. What on earth would God think of the behavior? Nevertheless, Mrs. Stanley was sure her son would be a wonderful father, and she couldn’t wait to meet her grandchild.

  Clara, however, felt nothing but unease about the situation, especially as she received increasing numbers of letters smudged by tears, describing the abuse Evie received at the hands of Mrs. Stanley and her son, how she kept house and cooked while he smoked and read newspapers and his mother lazed around. By the time the child was a month old, the last few letters had complained of extreme nausea and abdominal cramping alongside dramatic weight loss—possible signs of poisoning, thought Clara.

  She begged Evie to leave the house. “She packed a suitcase and told me she was going to come home with the baby, although I wasn’t so sure, Mrs. Stanley being so dominant. She intended to get the bus from Eton Wick to Slough, and make her way north, get the ferry to Ireland.”

  Evie never arrived, although Timothy and his mother swore she had travelled as planned. What made no sense to Clara was that the baby remained with Mrs. Stanley and Timothy—surely Evie would never leave her beloved daughter.

  And that’s the last anybody would admit to knowing. On paper, Evie had simply disappeared with no trace. No sign of trouble or disarray, no letter of explanation.

  Just gone.

  Everything pointed to foul play, but the officers in charge of the case were placated by Mrs. Stanley and her son, who badmouthed the missing woman as flippant, loose, and money-hungry. The strenuous efforts Clara made to visit her grandchild were rebuked with scorn.

  Convinced that weak and lily-livered Timothy, who died shortly after, had been responsible for Evie’s disappearance, Clara pestered the police, protesting the lack of care or regard for her daughter’s well-being. But they asked questions and were confident of his innocence. Eventually the only solution was to delve into the details herself.

  It was a dirty tale, sordid, and deep emotion and anger flowed from the pages, but Luke thought as he put the book down for the last time that it was only useful as a piece of fiction. The gripping and heartfelt catharsis of a grieving woman.

  Luke tucked the book back in his work bag and rubbed his tired eyes, then drained his beer.

  Evie McGrath’s case was open officially, though unlikely to be reinvestigated after all this time unless significant evidence turned up. As far as he was concerned, his involvement with the pleasant but nutty woman was over. And he was glad.

  ***

  Someone was shaking her shoulders and she gasped. Shivering. It was cold. Too dark to see, even without the dreamt dirt that clung to her eyelashes. She wiped her face, shuddering when she made out a shadowy figure looming above her.

  “Wake up, you silly cow. You’re having a bad dream.”

  Still semi-conscious, Mary scrabbled up against the headboard, sweat dripping from her brow to her clammy pajamas. Disoriented and horrified, catching her breath.

  “Yet another night’s sleep ruined.”

  “I’m sorry, Brian.” The images were sharp in her mind. He’d been the one burying her. She hated him more than ever. His persecution and aggression. A tyrant, that’s what he was. A slave-driving slob. Useless lump of lard.

  With a disgusted harrumph, Brian stomped to his room and fell on the bed, snoring like a warthog in seconds.

  Mary waited until she was sure he was asleep and slipped on her dressing gown, locating her slippers with her toes. She headed through the darkness to the kitchen and poured milk into a mug, nuked it in the microwave for a couple of minutes. Outside the wind howled, the clouds spitting raindrops at the windows in blustery bursts. The shadows raised by intermittent moonlight through the window seemed dangerous, every creaking floorboard or pipe a stranger waiting to pounce.

  On her deathbed, Mary’s grandmother had sworn she would never leave the house, and on nights like this Mary could well believe the woman hid somewhere and everywhere, shrouding the house with a blanket of doom. Gertie had been a manipulative menace when she was alive, belittling Mary’s every move and pandering to Brian. Getting what she wanted whichever way.

  Quietly, Mary opened the door, the autumn breeze icy at her ankles, whistling through shrubs and trees, plaintive and distressing. The thin moon cast barely-there specks of light across the lawn, and she found her way through the beloved garden by memory alone, tickled by fluttering leaves. Settling on the treasured bench by the angry stream, the dense, elegant branches of willow shielded her from the hammering rain.

  Mary closed her eyes, allowing the haunting melody to drift through her body and envelop her soul, heedless of the muddy water that seeped into her slippers. The breathtaking sound reached a crescendo, a blend of the stern downpour and the howling wind. Melancholy yet soothing. An angel’s song of love.

  ***

  “What happened with that o
ld woman yesterday?” The DI sniggered as she passed Luke’s desk, expecting a downtrodden scowl.

  “Actually, can I have a couple of minutes to talk about it?”

  She groaned inwardly as he followed her to the office and shut the door. Typical rookie, taking the job too seriously.

  “I don’t think she’s as crazy as you think.” Of course he didn’t, she mused with disbelief. “There are a few coincidences I could check out, especially as Mrs. Clark believes we would find Evie’s body in the garden if we looked.”

  “Forget it, she’s lost her marbles. The neighbor reported her asleep in the vegetable patch this morning. Flattened the cabbages, apparently. Husband was a bit handy with her on the way back to the house, berated her for making a fool of herself.”

  “That’s harsh. Thing is, I couldn’t sleep last night, so…”

  “Don’t start.”

  “No, really, so I did a bit of research about Evie McGrath.”

  “Wait, what? It’s a cold case, nobody told you otherwise.”

  “I read a book about her last night.”

  “For God’s sake, what book?”

  “Evie used to live in Mary Clark’s house. It was the last place she was seen.”

  He told her about the book, how it had landed on the passenger seat when he was backing out, and the DI sighed, feeling like a babysitter. “It’s still theft if she didn’t want you to have it. Or it could be seen as a favor. You need to give it back.”

  He should have nodded and agreed, but instead said, “I don’t want to go back there, it’s really creepy.”

  She laughed heartily. “There’s your nickname from now on: Namby-Pamby-Hamby. Get out of here and grow a pair.”

  “What about Evie McGrath?”

  The phone was buzzing on the desk and a colleague rapped at the door. The DI didn’t have time for conspiracy theories. “I told you to rule it out. It was almost seventy years ago, get over it.”

  ***

  “Mr. Clark—Brian?” Brian nodded, holding the door between them as a barrier. “I’m from social services. The police called us yesterday about your wife.”

  He gave a toothless grin as he let her pass, indicating the stairs. “I told her to get to bed. Spent the bleeding night out in that storm. I can see the nosy buggers next door tweaking their curtains, watching us. She’s an embarrassment, I tell you.”

  It was common for carers of dementia patients to tire of the condition, and the helpful woman disregarded his irritation. “Has she seen a doctor?”

  “They say there’s nothing wrong with her. Said she’s a bit eccentric, but nothing wrong medically.”

  “Can I see her?” Brian again showed her the stairs and grabbed a beer from the fridge as she looked on in confusion. “Are you not concerned about your wife, Brian?”

  “She can go to hell.” The social worker hurried upstairs, just as the doorbell chimed, and Brian swigged the beer, grumbling. Opened the door. “Not you again.”

  “I need to see Mary.”

  “You lot may as well have a party up there. She’s in her bedroom, the gaudy one that stinks of lavender.” He grabbed another beer, ignoring the still-half-full first bottle, and staggered to the living room.

  Greeting each other over Mary’s dilapidated bed, the social worker conveyed her interest and questioned Luke’s presence. He dug the book from a leg pocket and passed it to Mary, who clutched it to her heart. “Did you read it?”

  “In one night.”

  She grabbed his sleeve and he felt a spider crawl along his spine, her dirty nails gripping, desperate. “That baby was me. Evie was my mother. I barely remember my father before he died, and he never talked about my mother. My grandmother banned me from asking about her, said she was an Irish floozy who didn’t want the bother of looking after me so she went off with another man.”

  Luke stared at the sketch of the attractive woman on the cover of the book, able to see where Mary had become confused. They looked alike, the baby had a similar name—Mhairi—and he knew from the scant search he’d done before visiting that her parents, both deceased, were Eve and Timothy. Plus, Mary and Brian lived in the cottage. Mary must have noted these coincidences and, as she read, replaced the details in the book with those of her own life. But still it was intriguing.

  The doorbell rang and broke the moment. The social worker, Luke, and Mary listened carefully to the botheration of Brian complaining and an authoritative, well-spoken boom silencing him with manners. Footsteps came up the stairs and a tall, suited man with broad shoulders entered. “Good morning, ladies, sir.” He honed in on Mary. “I hear you’ve been getting yourself in a little trouble, young lady. Tell me what’s been going on.”

  Mary wasted no time. “I get nightmares, I think I’m being haunted. I feel earth filling my mouth and nose. My throat. Gets in my eyes. I try to free myself but I’m restrained, the ropes dig into my wrists and ankles. When I breathe I inhale mud. It’s gritty, slimy. Then I start to choke, my head is about to explode. By that time, I’ve usually shouted and Brian wakes me up, gets annoyed at me for ruining his sleep.”

  The carers exchanged surprised glances until the doctor persevered. “So why sleep in the garden?”

  “Because I’m close to my mother there. He,” she pointed to Luke, who shrank back, “needs to arrange to dig her body up. Then the nightmares will go.”

  Daft talk of hauntings and nightmares was not Luke’s forte, and he was certain the DI would never agree to the cost of Mary’s suggestion. His job here was done, and he slipped away.

  ***

  Luke’s third day as a detective was busier, more stimulating, and he didn’t think of Mary until he received a complimentary call from the social worker at the end of the day, telling him that their unruly pensioner had again slept in the vegetable patch, although luckily the night had been warmer and dry. Not interested but not wanting the health professional to know, he made chit-chat. “Did you stay for the doctor’s visit?”

  “There doesn’t seem to be anything physically wrong, but he suspects she’s a little depressed. It’s more common than one would think in the later ages.”

  “Is it a placebo jobby?”

  “Pardon?”

  “Is he giving her vitamin C for the placebo effect?”

  “No, I’m sure it’s the real deal. Why would you say that?”

  He thought about sharing the woeful words of Clara McGrath regarding poisoning, but decided against it, not wanting to be involved in the aged woman’s dream world. “What about the husband? He treats her pretty mean.”

  “She insists he’s never been violent.”

  “And you believe her?”

  “It’s hard for him, trying to cope with her like this. He’s not so young either. Maybe he’s depressed too, who knows.” Luke wryly raised an eyebrow. Everybody and their dogs seemed to be depressed nowadays. How on earth had they coped a hundred years ago? Or was modern life and its different set of issues the cause? Her perky phone voice continued. “I’m popping by to see her on my way home, do you want an update tomorrow?”

  “Case closed for me unless anything further happens, so no thanks.”

  ***

  The doctor’s advice to rest was amazing, and Mary spent most of the day on the bench, enjoying several crossword puzzles under the cool autumn sun. Peace and quiet except for the tinkling stream. “What the hell do you think you’re doing? Where’s my sodding dinner?”

  Mary dragged herself from the seat, bending and stretching out her seized joints, and trudged to the kitchen. “I’m sorry. The doctor told me to take it easy.”

  “Doctors and their fandangled rubbish, what do they know.” There was no point mentioning that their GP had prescribed tablets—Brian didn’t believe in such things—so Mary took a tray of eggs from the fridge, along with a block of cheese, and started prepari
ng an omelet. “Get me a beer, will you, I’m parched. Oh, and I’m off to the pub for darts in a minute, so get a move on.”

  She waited for him to gobble his food, eager for him to leave. Needing silence to collect her thoughts, find a way of making people believe her. As the door slammed barely seconds from her serving dinner, she sat and stared at the drawing of Evie. Like a twin of herself at the same age. Somebody had to listen. It was important.

  Someone had to dig up the garden.

  Resolute, she snatched the telephone, dialing. Ringing. Tuneless and repetitive. Fifteen, sixteen, seventeen… She put the receiver down, weary. “I’ve three children and four grandchildren, one of them must be home.” The second household didn’t pick up either, so she tried the third. “Mel, it’s me, how are you?”

  “Sorry, Mom, can’t stop, I’m on my way out. Got a million and one things to do, you know how it is.”

  “Is Katie there?”

  The silence registered, and Mary could picture her third child asking her own daughter the same question. Her thoughts were validated when she heard a whispered no. “She’s at her boyfriend’s all night, Mom.”

  “I see.” She didn’t see, or understand. Was she really such a terrible person that nobody had time or inclination for her? She said goodbye and cut the call, sadly accepting that she was alone in a busy-whizzy world.

  Mary washed the dishes and locked up, about to go to bed, when the phone rang. She snatched the receiver as if it were the last cake on the planet. “Mom, it’s Steve, I’ve got a missed call from you.”

  “I’m so glad you called. I’m having a bit of an elderly moment. I need the police to…”

  “…and so I dropped Jack and Zane off for soccer practice, then had to zip to the hospital to see Angie’s dad—he’s a lot better, by the way—and then we had to go shopping and…”