Jigsaw (11 page)

‘A thumbnail history of College, before I show you round: it originated in a small house in the centre of town in 1560, moving several times as it grew larger. Finally, in the nineteenth century, a trust bought this land, the building was purpose-built, and both day boys and borders moved here in 1840. As to famous pupils, there have been quite a few: Jerome Fitzsimmons, the Victorian prime minister; the poet Frederick Lancet and Seymour Leonard, the silent-movie star, among others, but they're all listed at the back of the booklet I've put out for you.

‘Now, if you'd like I'll take you on a quick tour of the building. We'll avoid the few classrooms that are in use, but most of the pupils are out on the games fields.'

The fact that his brief was a school rather than a stately home had not swayed the architect from his grand design. Sweeping staircases led to prefects' studies and staff rooms resplendent with wood-panelled walls; vaulted ceilings arched over well-stocked libraries, and in the beautifully proportioned classrooms the banks of computers seemed an anachronism. Only the Science Wing had of necessity been modernized, and though, as Miss Morton had indicated, the supposedly haunted lab still existed, its sad ghost would barely have recognized it.

Back in the main entrance hall, highly polished boards listed the names and dates of headmasters since the college's earliest beginnings. Rona stopped to read them, and had reached the last name, Richard Maddox, as he himself came down the staircase beside them.

Since he could hardly ignore them, he paused with an enquiring smile and Miss Morton said quickly, ‘Headmaster, this is Miss Rona Parish, whom I told you about. She's researching Buckford for the octocentenary. Miss Parish, Mr Maddox.'

He was a tall and imposing figure, with dark hair touched with grey at the temples and deep lines between his eyes. His black gown, hanging loosely from his shoulders, gave him an air of effortless authority.

‘Miss Parish.' He held out a hand that was cool and dry.

‘How do you do, Mr Maddox. I've been admiring your splendid school.'

‘I'm sure Miss Morton will supply you with all the information you require. We have a well-illustrated prospectus that is full of facts.'

‘I've put one out ready for her,' Miss Morton murmured.

Rona thought it wise not to repeat her interest in ghosts and eccentricities. ‘Thank you,' she said dutifully, and, with a nod, Richard Maddox went on his way. She would not, she reflected, like to cross swords with him, and spared a thought for the boys sent to his study for a reprimand. Corporal punishment might be frowned on these days, but it was clear Richard Maddox would have no need to resort to it.

They returned to Miss Morton's study and while she extracted the promised literature, Rona glanced through the window in time to see a car draw up outside and the driver get out. To her surprise, it was the woman from the coffee shop.

‘Is that a member of staff?' she asked quickly.

Joan Morton looked up, turning to follow her gaze.

‘No,' she replied, her eyes on the retreating figure, ‘that's Mr Maddox's wife. Why?'

‘I – saw her in town this morning.'

‘Here are the brief history and guide, and the latest prospectus. I hope you'll find them useful.'

‘Thank you. And there's really no chance of seeing Mrs Bishop's account?'

‘I'm sorry,' Miss Morton said firmly. ‘I'm not even sure we still have it.'

Rona swallowed her frustration. ‘Well, thanks for your help,' she said.

Having secured her parking place opposite the house, Rona walked back to the library where she transcribed the latest interview, discovering to her consternation that the cassette had run out. However, it seemed all she'd missed was Miss Morton's identification of Mrs Maddox. Odd that she should have seen her twice in one day, Rona thought. They seemed a spiky couple, the headmaster and his wife. She found herself wondering, with a writer's curiosity, what had brought them together.

With relief, she saw that the hands of the library clock were approaching five o'clock. It was like being an exile, she thought ruefully, to be shut out of her temporary home during working hours. Possibly, when she knew Nuala better, she might ask if the rules could be bent. Or possibly, since this was Nuala's first venture into B&B, she had no such rule. Rona should have checked instead of taking Max's word for it. She resolved to do so before her return next week.

She put away her things and, with a smile of thanks to the librarian, made her way thankfully back to Parsonage Place.

N
uala was in the hall when Rona let herself into the house with the key she'd been given.

‘How did it go with Aunt Edna?' she asked at once.

Rona hesitated, aware of Will doing his homework at the kitchen table.

‘Would you like to come up and listen to the tape?'

‘You recorded it? Oh yes, please, I would.'

With the bedroom door closed, Rona rewound the machine to the beginning of the interview. Nuala caught her breath as her aunt's halting voice filled the room, and when Rona switched off where she'd gone to make coffee, her eyes were full of tears.

‘I'd no idea she was as bad as that,' she whispered.

‘The odd thing is that she wasn't, the rest of the time. She didn't know who I was when I went back with the coffee, but after I'd explained she spoke quite lucidly, if a little disjointedly. She was positively eloquent on the subject of the Sunday school; talked about genes and chromosomes, for heaven's sake.' Rona flashed a look at her companion. ‘That first bit, though: what did she mean about
coming across
the couple?'

‘It would have been during her night walks. She wanders all round the town after dark. It frightens us even to think about it, but she's done it ever since Maisie died and so far she's come to no harm.'

‘Maisie?' Rona repeated sharply. ‘That's what she called me, just as I was leaving.'

Nuala nodded. ‘I gathered that's who she thought you were. They were friends all their lives, till Maisie's death ten years ago.' She paused, then, avoiding Rona's eyes, added hesitantly, ‘She mentioned a child.'

‘Yes; I suppose the woman, whoever she was, must have become pregnant. Perhaps she lost the baby – or got rid of it.'

Nuala didn't reply and after a moment Rona prompted, ‘You think it might be something else?'

‘I don't really see how it can be. It doesn't make sense.'

‘What doesn't?'

Nuala looked up miserably. ‘It was when she mentioned the police.'

At Rona's blank face, she went on, ‘We had a tragedy here a few years ago; a little girl was run over and killed.'

Rona said slowly, ‘And when the driver came out of prison, her father murdered him.'

‘You heard about it? Yes, it was terrible – it knocked the whole town for six.'

‘And you're wondering if
that
was the child she was referring to?'

‘Well, after the driver was murdered, the police did
make an appeal, as Auntie said, though the following day they charged Mr Spencer. How could anything she saw possibly tie in with that?'

‘Could there be a connection with that scandal you mentioned?'

Nuala looked alarmed. ‘God, I hadn't thought of that.'

‘What do you know about it?'

‘Absolutely nothing. It was just that when I told her about your coming, and that Gordon had said you were interested in scandals, she said she hoped you'd stick to those safely in the past.'

‘Safely in the past,' Rona echoed thoughtfully.

‘So I asked her if she knew of a more recent one, but Will came in at that point and we never got back to it. Oh God!' she said again.

‘Have you any idea who the couple might have been?'

Nuala shrugged. ‘
If
it was to do with Lottie – and it's a big “if” – I suppose it must have been one of her parents – her father, since Auntie talked about “his poor wife”.'

‘It could have been the driver.'

‘If it was before he went to prison, yes. The trouble is we've no idea when this was taking place. But you're right – it could have been virtually anyone; it was only her mentioning both the police and a child that made me think of Lottie, though I can't imagine how an affair could be relevant.'

‘That was just your aunt's idea, and it
was
during her less rational phase.' Rona slid out the full cassette and put in a new one, while Nuala watched in silence. ‘Anyway,' she added, ‘whoever was involved, it's nothing to do with us, so we might as well forget it. I only played you that bit to show her state of mind.'

‘Yes, and I'm grateful. I'll pop round and see her after supper.'

Remembering her feeling of confinement the previous evening, Rona checked in the local paper for cinema times, deciding that an evening there would be preferable to her own company. She should be in time for the main feature if she left straight after supper.

Nuala informed her that the cinema was at the far end of town, near the shopping mall, and strongly advised her to take the car. ‘With this spate of muggings, it's not safe after dark,' she warned. Max had said something similar.

Despite Nuala's efforts to speed up the meal, it was seven forty-five before they had finished. Rona ran upstairs, scooped car keys, pen and house key from the table into her handbag, and hurried from the house. In her haste she'd not closed it properly, with the result that when she juggled with it to open the car door, it fell to the ground and spilled its contents in an annoyingly wide arc.

Swearing under her breath and aware she was already late, she darted about retrieving comb, purse, mobile and keys, and felt quickly under the car in case anything had rolled there. Then, sure she had everything, she jumped into the car and drove off.

The auditorium had already darkened when she was shown in, and she felt her way down the aisle to a vacant seat and sat back, trying to catch her breath. The film was not one she would have chosen, but it was interesting enough and she was sufficiently caught up in the plot for the time to pass pleasantly, which was all she asked of it.

Back in the car, she saw there was a message from Max on her mobile, and promptly rang him back.

‘And where have you been until eleven at night?' he greeted her.

‘To the cinema, for want of anything better.'

‘Good film?'

‘It was all right. Brad Pitt.'

‘Ah!'

Rona laughed. ‘‘‘Ah” nothing; there was a limited choice and it seemed the best bet.'

‘You're not getting bored up there already?'

‘Not really, though it's unsettling having to stay out all day. I've been haunting the library. Had some interesting interviews, though, one of them up at the college.'

‘Are you back at the house now?'

‘No, in the cinema car park. I thought you might have rung, so checked my mobile.'

‘You've a parking space near the house, though?'

‘Yes, don't fuss!'

‘Just checking,' he said. ‘See you tomorrow, then.'

‘Yes; I'll be leaving about four, to be back around the same time as you.'

‘Fine. Sleep well. Love you.'

‘Love you too,' she replied, and with a little sigh, switched off and drove back to Parsonage Place.

She had decided to spend the next morning familiarizing herself with the town. First, though, she phoned the news editor at the
Buckford Courier
, identified herself, and asked the name of the reporter who'd written the previous week's paragraph. She was told it was Lew Grayson, that he'd be in the office all day, and would be pleased to see her if she'd like to drop in.

Having slipped notebook and recorder into her bag, she set off and had actually passed her car when something she'd subconsciously noticed made her turn. She'd not been mistaken: a small sheet of paper was tucked under the wipers.

Surely it couldn't be a parking ticket? she thought irritably as she extracted it; she was legitimately parked in a space reserved for visitors. She unfolded it, but since she'd been expecting an official notification, it took a minute for the words to sink in. Then, with a tightening of the throat, she read it again:
Interesting cassette! Any thoughts on what the old bird might have seen?

Rona turned and ran back up the path, her fumbling fingers needing several attempts to fit the key in the lock. Back in her room, she looked wildly about her. What had she done with the cassette? Feverishly she pulled open the table drawer. It was not there. Nor was it with her laptop, or among her notebooks. Heart hammering, she forced herself to be calm, to think back. When had she last seen it?

She'd taken it out of the machine after playing it to Nuala, and inserted the new one. So when she went down to supper, she must have left it on the table next to the keys she'd dropped there when she and Nuala first came into the room. And in her haste later to scoop up the keys, she'd have swept the cassette into her handbag with everything else – and dropped it by the car. All she could think was that it must have slid underneath, beyond her reaching fingers, and she'd not had time for a thorough search. But God, she thought now, she should have
made
time!

She forced herself to sit down at the table and steady her breathing. First, she mentally ran through its contents. As well as the interview with Edna Rosebury, it contained those at the various schools and at the college. Thank heaven she had at least transcribed them and had them safely on disk. Nevertheless, they had been vouchsafed to her personally, and although those interviewed knew she'd be using the material for later publication, that was very different from handing over their actual voices to a person or persons unknown.

She shivered at the sinister implications of the phrase, and another, even more unpleasant, thought struck her. Whoever had the tape knew to whom it belonged! He must have seen her drop her bag and noticed it lying in the road when she drove off. And – her heartbeats quickened – either come back later to leave the note, or – worse – never left, if, as was certainly possible, he lived in this street. So what would his next move be? To leave similar cryptic messages at the homes of those on the recording? The addresses of the schools and college could easily be ascertained – what of frail Miss Rosebury? Her name had been mentioned more than once, and if he didn't know her, he had only to look in the phone book. God, suppose he frightened her in some way?