Jigsaw (15 page)

Rona flicked through the decades, full of admiration for the research that had gone into this record. There was, of course, far more detail than she could make use of, but she'd extract a snippet here and there to illustrate the school's place in the history of the town.

It wasn't until after eleven that she remembered Max had warned her they were out of bread and milk. Reluctantly she closed the scrapbook, and with Gus at her side, set off to replenish supplies.

Rona had just completed her purchases when she heard her name called, and turned to see Magda Ridgeway hurrying towards her.

‘Rona – hi! Have you time for a coffee? I was hoping for a word with you.'

‘Yes, of course. Nice to see you.'

They went together up the spiral staircase leading to the walkway above the shops and turned into the doorway of the Gallery Café. From here, since it straddled the street corner, there were grandstand views of both Guild Street and Fullers Walk.

‘Did you hear about the break-in?' Magda demanded, as they seated themselves at a window table.

‘No?'

‘The Buckford boutique. They got away with thousands of pounds' worth of stock.'

Rona regarded her in horror. ‘Magda! I'd no idea – how awful.'

‘I thought you might have heard, since you were up there. It seems quite a mini crime wave has broken out.'

‘Oh, that I do know,' Rona said feelingly; ‘I was on the receiving end myself.'

‘Good God! What happened?'

She shook her head dismissively. ‘No, I'm exaggerating, but it was a bit unnerving. I must have dropped one of my cassettes as I got into the car. It had several interviews on it, and later someone left a note on my car implying that he'd listened to it.'

‘What an odd thing to do. Did he give it back?'

‘No, but fortunately I'd transcribed everything. What upset me, though, was someone unauthorized listening to it, specially since he made a reference to my landlady's aunt, a frail old lady who'd been rambling a bit.'

‘What kind of reference?'

‘Oh – had I any idea what she meant – that kind of thing. She'd been telling me about a couple meeting secretly and wondered whether she should inform the police.'

Magda lifted an eyebrow. ‘Not a criminal offence, is it?'

‘No, but – oh, it's a long story. But to get back to the break-in: you were fully insured, I hope?'

‘Yes, but that's hardly the point. All our new autumn stock has gone. We'll have to plunder the other shops to make up the shortfall. But enough of my troubles. Apart from the cassette business, how was your trip?'

‘Quite successful, actually. My first article's on education through the centuries, so I did the rounds of one or two schools, Buckford College among them.'

Magda leaned to one side as the waitress put down their coffee. ‘The head's wife is one of our customers,' she remarked.

‘Mrs Maddox? Really?'

‘Why the surprise? Did you meet her?'

‘No, I saw her in the town, but I didn't know who she was till later. I must say she's a good advertisement for you – very chic.'

‘I met her years ago, before she married Richard, though I've never known her well.'

‘How did you meet?' Rona asked curiously.

‘She came into the Chilswood shop. One of my friends who was there knew her, and she introduced us. Helena was giving her son piano lessons.'

‘I didn't realize she taught, as well.'

‘She only takes a handful of pupils these days.' Magda stirred her coffee. ‘I don't know why, but I've always felt rather sorry for her.'

‘Was she married before?'

‘No, there'd been a long-term relationship that didn't work out. She was terribly cut up when it ended, and had some sort of breakdown, apparently. She's still highly strung – goes with the musical temperament, perhaps. Anyway, in due course Richard came along, a handsome, eligible widower, and when he asked her to marry him, she jumped at it. According to Briony she desperately wanted children, and he needed a wife before he could apply to Buckford. They're quite strict about that.'

‘A marriage of convenience, then.'

‘Oh, I'm not saying there's no love there – I hope there is – though Richard seems a pretty cold fish, and the longed-for children never materialized. I might be wronging him, but his own sons were already in their teens and I doubt if he'd have wanted any more.'

Magda gave a brief laugh. ‘Why are we discussing Helena Maddox? What I wanted to ask you was if you'd have lunch with me next week? I have to go to Buckford to sort some things out, and it occurred to me you'll be there. We've just opened a little café at the back of the shop – at least that's still intact, thank God – and I wanted an honest opinion of it. You know, atmosphere, choice of food, décor, prices – things like that.'

‘From one who's an expert on all things culinary?'

Magda smiled. ‘From one who enjoys eating.'

‘I'd love to, thanks. It'll provide a bit of light relief; I'm hoping to concentrate on churches next week. I'm even having supper with the vicar on Monday, so I'll probably be ready to let my hair down!'

‘Great.' Magda finished her coffee. ‘Let's make it Tuesday then, about twelve thirty? Now I really must dash – I've a buyer arriving any minute. See you.'

‘I'll look forward to it.'

Rona finished her own coffee more slowly, turning over in her mind what she'd learned about Helena Maddox. How little you could tell from the persona people presented to the world, she thought. She had written Mrs Maddox off as a rich, lovely woman with a penchant for complaining, knowing nothing of her unsatisfied longing for children or her gift for music. As a writer, she should be more cautious in labelling people, she upbraided herself, and resolved to be less hasty in future.

I
t was not until Sunday evening that Rona checked her mobile for messages, and saw to her astonishment there were over a dozen. The explanation soon became clear; Lew Grayson had kept his word and run another snippet in Friday's
Courier
. She retired to her study and, with pen poised, started to play through them.

As was to be expected, they were a mixed bag. A group of boys kept interrupting each other as they spun a lurid story about a vampire stalking the town, to the accompaniment of hysterical giggles in the background; an elderly lady stated that her grandmother had been housemaid to what was then known as ‘the gentry', and had some tales to tell. More scandals, Rona thought with wry amusement, but since the caller had left neither name nor number, they were lost to her. There were a couple of obscene calls, then one that startled her into full attention.

‘How's the old girl?' came a strident voice, loud in the quiet room. ‘Told you who the lovers are yet?'

She'd been right, then, the thief was a man, though something in the timbre of the voice suggested it was disguised. Why? Did he think she might recognize his normal one? The thought made her uneasy, as did the fact that he hadn't, as she'd hoped, considered it a game, forgotten once the note was written. Perhaps, after all, she should warn those featured on the tape.

Determinedly she continued with the messages. Several claimed to have material of interest, and left contact numbers without being any more specific. They might well be a waste of time, but since they'd taken the trouble to phone, she would have to call them back.

‘Are you coming down for a drink?' Max called from the foot of the stairs.

‘I've nearly finished; just a couple more to go.'

And it was the next call that made up for all the time-wasters. ‘Miss Parish,' said a hesitant voice, ‘my name is Beth Spencer and my husband's in prison convicted of murder. I know beyond shadow of a doubt that he's innocent, and I wonder if you can help me prove it? You're probably my last hope. I'd be so grateful if you'd contact me. My number is—'

Rona switched off the phone and sat staring into space, her heart hammering. One thing was certain, there was no way she could tell Max about this call. But nor, she accepted, was there any way she could ignore it. God, she should have known the Harvey affair would haunt her. People seemed to have got it into their heads that she could solve problems that defeated the police, which was plainly ludicrous; she wasn't even an investigative journalist. Furthermore, in this case the police had not been defeated: they had brought to trial a man whose daughter had been killed by the victim, and who had concealed a knife stained with his blood on his own premises.

Should she go and see Beth Spencer? Or should she phone back and tell her gently that it wasn't part of her remit to reopen criminal files? She closed her notepad and went back downstairs. By the time she reached the kitchen, she knew which option she would take.

Beth Spencer worked as a dental receptionist, and since she preferred Rona not to come to the house when the boys were home, she suggested a lunchtime meeting. It was arranged that they would meet at St Stephen's Coffee Shop at one o'clock.

As she drove to Buckford the next morning, Rona agonized over whether to tell Nuala about the missing cassette. She'd not seen her to talk to since she'd found the note, should she admit the loss, or would it simply add to Nuala's worries? She was already concerned about her aunt, and the raised voices that had greeted Rona's un expectedly early return last Wednesday hinted at further problems.

Over the weekend she had reread the transcript of the missing tape, and convinced herself there was nothing on it to compromise anyone. The mention of the errant lovers was the only item remotely capable of causing trouble, and since they hadn't been named, any damage it could do was limited. Surely, then, for everyone's peace of mind, it was better to say nothing.

As the previous week, Rona parked her car, grateful for the vacant space, and carried her case into the house. Nuala appeared at the top of the stairs. ‘Hello – had a good weekend?'

‘Yes, thanks.' Rona went up the stairs towards her. ‘Not at work today?'

‘No; I'm in the office at Samuel's department store for the next three weeks, and they're closed on Mondays.'

‘Nice way to start the week! How's your aunt?'

‘Not good.' Nuala followed her as far as the bedroom door. ‘I've slept over there the last few nights to make sure she doesn't go walkabout, but as you can imagine it wasn't well received, and she still refuses to see the doctor. She insists she's perfectly all right, and she was certainly compos mentis all weekend.'

‘Perhaps it was just a hiccup then,' Rona said, putting her case on the bed. The window was open and there was a small vase of flowers on the dressing-table. She sniffed at them appreciatively. ‘Thank you for these; they're lovely.'

‘From the garden.' Nuala's mind was still on her aunt. ‘I did ask her about the couple,' she continued, ‘but she swore she didn't know what I was talking about. She's obviously decided to clam up.'

‘She might have forgotten,' Rona suggested, but Nuala shook her head.

‘No, I could tell she knew. Still, it doesn't look as though we'll get anything out of her.' She turned to go, then glanced back. ‘You did say you wouldn't be in for supper tonight?'

‘That's right, I'm going to the vicarage. I'll be back about five as usual, though, to type up my notes and have a wash and change.' She wondered fleetingly whether to ask if she might return earlier, but decided against it. Jack Stanton might not care to have comings and goings during the day.

‘Fine,' Nuala replied. ‘We might not be home, but you have your key.'

After she'd gone downstairs, Rona hung up the dress she intended to wear that evening, then glanced at her watch. Still nearly two hours before her lunch appointment. Since this was officially her ecclesiastical week and she'd be seeing the vicar this evening, she could do worse than make a start on St Giles's, just over the wall.

This time a church welcomer was on duty, a pleasant, middle-aged woman waiting just inside the door. Several other people were wandering around farther up the aisle, and one or two were reading the bronze memorial plates on the walls.

Feeling it would be unethical to present herself as a tourist, Rona identified herself and explained what she was hoping to do.

‘Oh yes, Miss Parish, Mr Breen said you might be in. Is there anything I can help you with, or would you prefer to walk round by yourself? There are several pamphlets, which might help.'

‘Thanks, I'll take one.' She remembered now that she had one from her last visit, but had foolishly left it at home. ‘Perhaps I should look round first, and ask you for further information afterwards?'

The church was as lovely as she remembered, and she walked slowly round, referring to the informative little booklet. The font, she learned, was thirteenth century and the tower had been erected in 1400. One of the memorial plates commemorated those killed during the Civil War, two of whom had died in that very building under Roundhead fire. She and Max had seen the cannonball on their previous visit.

Several chapels dedicated to various saints lay off the side aisles, and two of them had early wall paintings that had been uncovered some twenty years previously. The paten, Rona read, had been made for Jane Seymour, to celebrate the birth of her son. It had passed into Queen Elizabeth's possession, and she had later given it to one of her favourites who lived nearby, who in turn had presented it to the church.

The sun slanting through the stained glass, the smell of beeswax mingling with perfume from the flowers massed in the chancel and the organ playing quietly in the background combined to make Rona linger, and with a start she realized she must hurry to keep her appointment. She thanked the woman at the door, promising to return later, and set off quickly down Clement's Lane.